Unexpected Consequences
by IronAmerica
Summary: Who knew that dancing with a criminal could yield such results? Scales repays Dana for her favor in THS, with some rather unexpected consequences - and a side trip down the rabbit hole. Will contain spoilers for The Cape.
1. Irrefutable Evidence

It's here! The sequel is here!

Unbeta'ed, as always.

Chapter One: Irrefutable Evidence

- o – o -

Dana Faraday hated working in the public defender's office some days. The caseload on her desk never seemed to get shorter, no matter how many she reviewed in a day. The defender had the feeling that she could work on the pile on her desk for a straight month and never get any further than she already had.

The woman groaned and flipped her pen onto the desktop. It was the end of another excruciatingly long day, and she hadn't made a reasonable dent in her caseload. If every other office on the defender's level of the courthouse wasn't buried under the same mountain of paperwork, she would have guessed that Travis was being deliberately cruel.

Dana paused for a moment at the thought of deliberate cruelty. Three weeks ago, she'd met one of Palm City's most notorious (and, according to rumor, psychotic) gangsters. Instead of Dominic Raoul being the delusional mass murderer that most people thought he was, Dana had found him to be a somewhat charming individual. Even if he _was_ a little rough around the edges, she had to admit to herself.

It was true to the form that her life had entered into though—nothing ever seemed to work out like it should have.

Scales had proved to be much calmer than the stories described. He'd taught Trip to play pool, and he'd danced with her. The smuggler had even defended her to that creepy little man from the carnival, when he could have just abandoned her to her own devices.

Dana snorted, realizing just how surreal that evening had been. If Trip hadn't commented on it later that week, she would have brushed the entire evening off as a dream.

She sighed, pushing the call button for the elevator. She had enough trouble with a workload the size of Mount Everest without thinking about a known criminal in favorable terms.

When Dana finally arrived at the parking garage (the elevator was slower than the stairs some days), there was a car idling in the lot just past the elevators. Dana wouldn't have given it a second glance, but for the two men who grabbed her as soon as she stepped out of the elevator.

Dana was about to reach for the can of mace in her purse when the larger man on the left spoke. "Mrs. Faraday?" She nodded warily. He grinned at her. "Sorry about the inconvenience."

Dana gave a mental sigh. Even the criminals were getting surreal these days.

"Our boss wants a word with you," he added, opening the back door of the idling car. "If you would…"

Dana's first instinct was to jab her heel into the man's foot as hard as she could and then make a break for it. That instinct was overruled when she saw the guns that both men were toting. The public defender gave it up as a lost cause and slid in.

Sitting in the back seat was a man she recognized rather well. It was hard not to—there were very few men in Palm City, much less the United States who were a combination of large, imposing, and covered in scales.

Dominic Raoul, better known as Scales to Palm City, was seated in the back of the car. He had a smug look on his face, and it had only gotten more defined as the public defender slid into the seat beside him.

He ignored her as the front door opened and the two men who'd grabbed her got in. "Kazzie, drive around until you're sure we're not bein' followed. I don't want ARK cozzers on our tail."

After twenty minutes, the smuggler appeared to relax a fraction. He opened the folder that had been resting on his lap and pulled a few of the pictures off the pile. "Recognize this berk?" Scales asked, holding one of the photos up.

It was a grainy picture that looked as if it'd been pulled off a security camera. There was no denying who it was, though.

Dana held the picture gingerly, and began blinking back tears. There, staring up at her, was Chess. According to the date stamp in the lower right corner, this had been taken three weeks after the explosion that killed her husband.

The next picture was much clearer. Chess was staring up at the camera, a look of contempt on his face. The date stamp listed it as being a month after her husband's death. Dana was almost afraid to look at the next one (Chess supervising the loading of some cargo), or the one after that (Chess casually shooting a man; taken over a month ago).

After she'd looked at all the pictures in the file, Dana looked up. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered, voice thick with emotion and unshed tears. "Haven't my son and I suffered enough?"

Scales frowned, appearing to contemplate what Dana had said. Finally, he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. "By tomorrow morning, every media outlet in the country is goin' ta know about Chess being alive and out. All it takes is one little word and I send the evidence."

He looked up at Dana, a smile on his face. "Consider this a repayment of services rendered, ducky."

It took a moment for what he'd said to click in Dana's mind. Services rendered…? What—three weeks ago, she'd danced with him. Was that why he was doing this? Because she'd danced with him?

(Even taking how odd the man reportedly was into account that theory was a bit of a stretch.)

Scales leaned back against the seat, eyes closed. He appeared to be rather comfortable with just waiting for a response from Dana. And, Dana thought, he probably already knew what she was going to say.

Dana bit her lip, trying to consider all the consequences of her actions. She could say no, and be left with the evidence that Chess was still alive and her husband had been framed. Her son would never know that his father was innocent.

If she said yes, the evidence would go to the press. Her life, the life that she'd rebuilt for Trip, would be torn apart by a media circus; Trip would be subjected to unwanted scrutiny. They'd both know that Vince had been murdered because Fleming believed he was Chess.

And who was the real Chess? Dana bowed her head, eyes closed. After a few minutes quiet contemplation of the consequences of her answer, Dana looked up.

"Yes."

Scales smirked.

- o - o -

So, the first chapter of the sequel is out...finally. Did you like it? Hate it? Apathetic? Drop a line and let me know.


	2. He's innocent?

Chapter two: the plot thickens...or dives down an unexpected rabbit hole, depending on your point-of-view.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter two: Wait…he's innocent?

- - o - -

Vince groaned as the banging on his door increased. The former cop turned vigilante contemplated rolling over and going back to sleep—and had even pulled his pillow over his head to silence the noise—when Raia began yelling his name.

"VINCE!" the carnie yelled, banging her fist on the door again. "Open this door or so help me, I'll have Ruvi hypnotize you!" And knowing Raia—and Ruvi—like he did, Vince didn't doubt it.

The vigilante sat up with a groan, and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. Last night's patrol had left him incredibly sore, and moving was going to hurt today. He landed on the floor with a thump, and padded over to the doors to unlock the chain holding them closed against intruders.

"Mornin'…Raia," he said, yawning. "Something up at Trolley Park?"

Raia scooted past him, and began pawing through the machinery on the massive table in the center of the room. Vince watched her, brain unable to contemplate what she was doing through the pre-awareness fog. Finally, the woman gave up with an exclamation of disgust.

"Arrgh! Vince!"

Vince stared at her, now almost fully awake. Apparently he'd done something wrong…and she was going to do something nasty to him in return. Running away was starting to look like a _very_ good idea. (She might not have looked it, but Raia was incredibly strong; she also had a mean left hook.)

"Vince, where's your TV remote?" Raia asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She looked about as giddy as the time Popo had let her have some of his coffee. Vince wasn't sure what was in that stuff, but Raia had been worse than a hyperactive five-year-old on a sugar rush. He had to wonder if she'd gotten into Popo's stash again…

"It's over here," Vince mumbled, deciding to humor the carnie. "Why do you need it anyways? Did Rollo lose the one at the carnival or something?" Raia scowled and smacked him on the arm.

"Vince, it's early, so I'll forgive you," Raia stated with an impatient look on her face. "Now, if I told you that everyone knew Chess was alive—and that you were innocent, would you believe me?"

Vince stared at her uncomprehendingly. "I'd say…that it was probably a dream, and go back to bed," he finally admitted. "There is no way," he added, grabbing the remote out from under a keyboard, "that Fleming would slip up that badly."

Raia smirked. "Well, I've just won four hundred dollars. Turn the TV on and take your pick of stations—I'd suggest NBC. It's got the best angles."

Vince raised an eyebrow, but did as he was told. If Raia hadn't put a chair behind him, the vigilante would have collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

The montage of photos—from an "anonymous source", according to the voice-over—showed Chess, alive and well. The date stamps were constantly being highlighted, enlarged, and brought to the foreground before vanishing again.

This was…this was incredible! Vince ran his hands through his hair, a look of pure joy on his face. He could finally go home! Chess had been exposed as…

Vince's face fell as the news report changed to a press conference outside ARK Towers. Peter Fleming was on screen, looking rather contrite. The billionaire's speech, while pretty, was covering his bases so that he didn't look bad to the press.

Fleming was apologizing profusely for the "grave error" that had led to the death of one of Palm City's "finest sons". His security team had received a tip—from a source that had asked to remain anonymous—that had led to Vincent Faraday's death. Fleming would be conducting a full investigation into the validity of the tip; he would also be issuing a personal apology to the man's wife and son.

And, Vince thought cynically as he turned the television off, the black armband had been a nice touch.

- - o - -

Dana was on eggshells the morning after her conversation with Scales. She didn't know how long it would take the news to reach the public, but the public defender knew that the fallout was going to be spectacular. Either Chess would come gunning for her and Trip, the other gangsters would do the same trying to score favors with the serial killer, or she and her son would end up under the dubious protections of ARK Corporation.

Either way it was cut, she was not looking forward to the work day.

Almost as soon as she'd sat down at her desk, there was a knock on the door. Dana sighed and looked up, expecting to see Travis or one of the interns there with a stack of folders. She was partially relieved to see a deliveries man standing there instead, balancing a massive vase of flowers on one hip, and fumbling for his clipboard with the other hand.

Dana stood up and grabbed the vase of flowers for the man. She smiled at him as he gave a relieved sigh—that sounded suspiciously like a few well-aimed curses at his boss.

"Whose office are you looking for?" Dana asked, readjusting her grip on the vase. It really _was_ quite heavy. The man glanced at his clipboard, before looking up at her.

"Yours, apparently," he said with a grin. "You've got one hell of an admirer, Mrs. Faraday," he added, holding out his clipboard. "Sign here please."

Dana's eyes widened as she took in the massive bouquet. Apparently Scales was still repaying the favor—with flowers. Who knew?

She managed to balance the vase on one hip and clumsily signed where the deliveries man indicated. He was about to leave when he stopped, and turned around to address her. "For what it's worth, I never believed that Officer Faraday was that nutjob."

He tipped his cap to the mystified public defender and walked off, whistling.

Dana stumbled back inside her office and deposited the flowers on the windowsill. A card stuck in among the brilliantly-colored blossoms caught her attention as she was about to return to her desk.

The woman sighed and grabbed the card before returning to her desk. Dana read the card, and scowled before ripping it into fourths. The pieces were subsequently tossed into the trash. If there hadn't been fire codes, she would have set them on fire as well.

It had been an apology from the ARK security team that had killed her husband. As far as Dana was concerned, it was insincere bullshit.

Dana returned to her work, and began reviewing the case files. Several area teens had been arrested for "suspicious behavior". Reading between the lines told her that they'd pretended to be drunk as a stunt for a web show they were doing. Dana wrote her recommendation (give them community service time and a warning), and tossed the folder onto the done pile.

She was halfway through the A's when the next delivery man arrived. Dana sighed and waved the man in. He was carrying a smaller vase—an inexpensive plastic one—that held a single purple hyacinth. There was no note.

Dana placed the small vase on the corner of her desk, next to the cup with her pens. In eighth grade, she'd been crazy about flowers and what they meant—the purple hyacinth was an apology. From who, she didn't know.

She'd take the apologies as they came, even if they were a weird message. Surreal was her watchword these days.

Travis entered Dana's office at mid-morning, carrying a smaller stack of files. Dana had actually managed to make a dent in the caseload on her desk; when she saw the new files, she gave Travis a fish-eyed look that she hoped conveyed the depth of her displeasure.

He shrugged. "Sorry Dana, but you know how it is." The files were deposited on her desk, but Travis lingered for a few seconds. Dana looked up after a few seconds, a questioning look on her face.

"Yes, Travis?" she asked, putting her pen down.

"I'm sorry about your husband," Travis said sincerely, before placing a yellow rose on her desk. He gave a little half bow and left the room. Dana sighed, rubbing her temples. If she ever saw the smuggler again, she was going to skin him and make a nice pair of boots.

By noon, Dana was getting fed up with the gawkers, the deliveries, and the apologies—sincere or not. Her office now resembled a flower shop, and the pile of files on her desk wasn't getting any shorter.

When the next deliveries man knocked on her door, Dana lost it. She began screaming at the man, who looked like he was about to cry.

"STAY OUT OF MY OFFICE!" Dana roared, the anger that had been brewing all day erupting at the nearest target. Unfortunately for the poor deliveries man, he was it. "I AM SICK AND TIRED OF _EVERYONE_ TRYING TO GET BACK INTO MY GOOD GRACES AFTER EIGHT MONTHS OF ABSOLUTE HELL! GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!"

The poor man nodded rapidly and deposited the flowers on the bench as he fled the building. Dana wilted the moment he was out of sight, leaning against the door jamb as she buried her face in her hands.

She hadn't meant to lose it like that, on a man who was just doing his job, but she had _had it_! Now that everyone _knew_ that Vince was innocent, they all wanted to kiss up or apologize for believing those horrible, soul-crushing reports for eight months.

Dana jumped when someone placed their hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Kia—one of the other counselors on this level—looking down at her with a look of sympathy.

"You okay, sweetie?" Kia asked, crouching down so that she was eye-level with Dana. "I think everyone heard you," the Hispanic lawyer added, scowling at someone who was unfortunate enough to be looking out his door at that moment. She muttered something rude under her breath that had Dana smiling.

"I'll be fine, Kia," Dana said, hauling herself upwards. "But after work, I'm going to go hunt down a man and skin him." Kia snorted, shrugging as she left.

"If you ever feel like drinks sometime," Kia threw over her shoulder, "I'm always available. Call ahead and I'll break out the rum." She smiled at Dana, waved, and left for her office.

Dana laughed, and returned to her paperwork. Another two hours to go until she could hunt Scales down and yell at him. She had a feeling that he'd let her vent with no repercussions…

Scales was sitting at the same booth, drinking a glass of beer, when Dana walked into the bar. She'd remembered the route surprisingly well, considering that she'd last driven it during a freak snowstorm three weeks ago. And, three weeks ago, she wouldn't have even contemplated doing this.

But now? Now, the public defender felt brave enough to give the smuggler a piece of her mind. She was fed up with the world at the moment—with a few notable exceptions, Kia, Travis and Ms. Blander being the three.

The deformed smuggler looked up as Dana stalked over to his booth, face nearly unreadable in the half-light. He didn't look all that surprised to see Dana however, and merely saluted her with the half empty glass. "Evenen, luv," Scales rumbled, standing up.

Compared to the last time she'd seen him, Scales was dressed rather casually. Instead of a suit that would have bought the public defenders' office twice over (at the very least), the smuggler was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. It bothered Dana that the picture the smuggler presented wasn't as surreal as it could have been.

"Fancy a drink with me, ducky?"

Dana blinked, unsure of how to reply. The flowers throughout the day had been surreal. The apologies—dear _God_, the constant, never-ending stream of apologies—had been annoying. And now a smuggler, even if he'd done something that could be portrayed as heroic, was offering to buy her a drink.

Well, she'd have time to regret it in the morning. Dana nodded, and followed Scales over to the bar.

- o - o -

Author's note: Okay, well...that was unexpected Dana.

What did you think? Not realistic enough? Too sappy? To weird? Not suspenseful enough? Drop a line to let me know.


	3. The Art of Building A Bridge

It's an update! It's three weeks later than expected, but what can you do when the muses hate you? *shrug*

Un-beta'ed, as usual. You know the drill by now.

- 0 – 0 –

Chapter Three: The Art of Building a Bridge

Dana grumbled a curse under her breath as the bedroom door creaked open. If Trip was in her room before seven a.m. again, she was going to hunt Marty down and slaughter him. The public defender began pawing around on the nightstand as she heard feet padding across the floor. If it was earlier than seven, Marty was a dead man.

After a few seconds useless searching, Dana gave in and opened her eyes. Upon seeing the outline of a large man, she was instantly awake. Waking up, in what apparently was a stranger's bedroom, was a definite cause for panic.

"Easy there, ducky," the man rumbled. Dana winced, pressing a hand to her forehead. Her head felt like someone had used it to batter open a door, and her mouth was dryer than Death Valley. _What_ had she been doing last night, and why did this man… Realization hit her like a sack of bricks.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands. _What_ had she been drinking last night? For that matter, _why_ had she been drinking last night? With _Scales_, of all people?

"And a good morning to you to," the smuggler said, voice a touch too loud for Dana's comfort. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dipped further under his weight. "You look like I felt 'alf an hour ago. Coffee?" He held out a mug to Dana, who took it warily.

"Did we…?" Dana asked cautiously, settling the mug on her knees. She was almost afraid to continue that line of questioning. She was dressed, at least; she also sincerely hoped that all the two of them had done was drink (despite the current situation. She had enough on her mind _without_ adding "drunken sex with a criminal" to the list.)

"No," Scales muttered, resting his chin on one massive hand. "Funny t'ing. If I want to ge' pissed up, it's usually snakebites." He sighed, taking a sip of coffee from his own mug. "Oh, 'n don't worry yoursen over your boy. I sent Noodle round to check—that crazy bint with the 'uge glasses chased 'im off with a frying pan."

Dana had no idea how the smuggler had anticipated her next question. She was grateful all the same, though. The "crazy bint" had to be Gerry's mother, Lena Blander. The public defender made a mental note to thank her neighbor for looking after her son for the evening.

"I hear gears turning," Scales mumbled into his cup of coffee. Dana scowled at him, and considered hitting the man when he just snickered at her.

"I will skin you later," Dana grumbled, sipping the coffee. Sudden realization hit her. "Jesus Christ! What's the time? I'm going to be late for work!" She attempted to get out of bed and throw the covers off at the same time, only to fall in a tangled heap on the floor.

Scales, who'd watched the pratfall, sighed. He stood up and gently lifted his guest to her feet, disentangling her from the sheets in the process. "I doubt ye'll be wantin' to show up today," he replied, picking up Dana's now-empty mug. "It's absolute Bedlam out t'ere," he added, seeing Dana's raised eyebrows.

"And I still have a job to do," Dana replied stubbornly.

"Not today you don't," Scales replied, just as stubbornly. "You're going to get yoursen home to your lad, and stay put." Dana scowled at him, and was annoyed to see that it had no effect on the smuggler. One cross look from her and Vince (and most of her clients) would stop trying her patience; massive criminals with a hangover appeared to be the exception.

"Fine!" Dana huffed, throwing her hands up in the air. "Where are my things?" she asked, looking around for her shoes and purse. She needed to call Travis and tell him…that she was sick, or something. As much as she hated to admit it, Scales was probably right in that she shouldn't go to work today.

- o – o -

When Dana arrived at her apartment at a quarter til eight, she saw why Scales had suggested she avoid work. A flock of reporters was waiting outside the building, and appeared to be camping out. One could only imagine what it was like outside the public defender's office... She was immensely grateful for the unlocked side-door that the landlord had left open for her, after she'd called ahead.

Now all she needed to do was avoid the reporters…

Dana took her shoes off, and, clutching them in one hand, ran for the door. She'd just barely made it inside when one of the reporters spotted her streaking by. His shout got the others rejuvenated and running for the apartment again, cameras flashing as they tried to get a shot of Dana Faraday.

Dana leaned against the emergency door, breathing a sigh of relief. She'd managed to avoid the amused looks of Scales' minions (and she'd sworn she'd seen money changing hands as she'd come out), and the reporters. Facing Mrs. Blander, on the other hand…

The public defender jumped when her phone began ringing. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that it was only Travis calling, and not Marty or a reporter who'd somehow gotten ahold of her number (again).

She listened with half an ear to Travis as she made her way up to the fourth floor. The Blanders lived in 4-C, right underneath her apartment. She'd left Trip there last night, with half and explanation; God only knew what Lena had thought of her running off with no warning.

Travis ended the phone call when it became apparent his employee wasn't listening. Dana realized, after a few seconds, that she'd been told to stay home that day. Well, that was something at least. Apparently the reporters were thicker at the public defenders' office than they were on Sycamore Boulevard.

Dana took a deep breath before knocking on the door. A few seconds later, the door opened to reveal Lena Blander in a fairly foul mood. The scowl disappeared the second she saw Dana, rather than a reporter.

"Dana!" Lena smiled, opening the door. "Come on in! Trip and Gerry are watching cartoons, and I've got coffee brewing."

Dana smiled gratefully at the woman, sliding past her into the apartment. Lena was an accountant who worked from home; Dana had no idea who the woman worked for, and didn't want to ask. In this city, people liked to keep their business private.

After Lena had poured coffee for both of them—and added an ungodly amount of sugar to hers—she began the interrogation.

"So, where were you last night?" she asked, blowing on her coffee to cool it down. Dana swallowed, and looked down at her own mug. It was blue, and had pink flowers painted around the rim.

"I went to speak to a friend," she demurred finally. At a look from Lena, she rolled her eyes. "He's the one who sent the pictures out," she elaborated.

"Uh-huh," Lena muttered, taking a sip from her mug. She grimaced, and added some more sugar. "But you didn't answer my question. Where did you go that you couldn't come back until a quarter 'til?"

Dana buried her face in her hands, sighing. When she looked up, Lena gave her a sympathetic smile. "I went to a pub, with the intent to skin my informant."

Lena chuckled. "And you ended up drinking, and did something stupid," she surmised. "Do I need to refer you to a clinic?" she asked, peering hard at the public defender. Dana felt her face flush at the implication.

"Mmhm," Lena murmured, watching Dana's face change colors. "Sweetie, I don't want to see you do something stupid, that you're gonna regret. I don't regret having Gerry, but his dad is another matter entirely…"

Dana was pretty sure she could have cooked an egg on her forehead at that point. "I…I don't think it'll come to that," she stuttered. "I don't think we even _did_ anything, besides drink…"

Lena nodded, unconvinced. "I hope, for your sake—and for Trip's—that you're right. You don't need to be an unmarried mother in this climate. Especially," she added, fixing a rather hard look on Dana, "considering who _you_ are. Think on it, sweetie. And if you're in that position, give me a call. I know who to talk to."

The awkward situation passed, and the two women continued chatting for the next half hour. At that point, the cartoon that Trip and Gerry had been watching was over. Trip was quite ready to go home and take advantage of his mother's unexpected vacation.

The two Faradays said their goodbyes, and climbed up the fire escape to get back to their apartment. (Lena had taken a look out into the hallway, and seen at least five reporters skulking around the stairwells. She'd offered to bring down the shotgun; Dana had reminded her that the police couldn't be bought anymore.)

Dana wandered into the kitchen to make something that resembled food. She couldn't remember if she'd eaten anything in the thirteen hour blank spot in her memory, and didn't want to take any chances. After looking through the cupboards, she decided that a) she needed to go grocery shopping again, and b) she was going to have to settle for dry toast.

As she was cutting the loaf of bread into slices, she heard a knock at the door. Trip yelled that he would get it, and she heard him thumping across the living room floor to the front door.

If it was a reporter, he'd leave the door shut. Dana half-wondered if she could mount a decent case for harassment at this point…

"Mom!"

Dana looked up from her task at her son's yell. If a reporter had somehow forced his or her way in, she was going to kill said reporter. She wiped her hands on a towel and headed for the living room.

Standing in the front doorway, with a rather insincere smile on his face—and another bedamned bouquet in one hand—was Peter Fleming.

- o – o -

Hey, look, things are heating up! So, how was the chapter: like it? Hate it? Don't care? Drop a line and let me know!


	4. Apologies

Hey! It's an update-in this chapter, Fleming apologizes. Sort of...

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o - o -

Chapter Four: Apologies

Dana stared openmouthed at the industrialist. She was still obviously hung over, as there was no way this could be happening. The devil himself was in her apartment building, waiting outside her apartment for an invitation to come in.

She sighed, wondering if it was too late to go to her bedroom and pretend to be asleep. Or to take a shower. Anything that would get her out of talking to the man who'd ordered her husband's death.

"Mom?"

Trip's voice broke through Dana's conflicting thoughts, many of which were focused on how to avoid ever talking to Peter Fleming. She sighed, wiped her hands on her jeans again, and strode over to the door.

"It's okay sweetie," Dana said to Trip, placing her hand on his shoulder. Underneath her grip, she could feel him trembling. It seemed that she wasn't the only one not liking what had happened after opening the door. "Good morning, Mr. Fleming," she said to the billionaire.

"Mrs. Faraday," Fleming replied, extending the bouquet. Dana scowled at the flowers to keep from verbally attacking the head of ARK Corporation.

Dana took the flowers, and stepped aside, plastering an equally fake smile on her face. "Please, come in. I've got coffee brewing." Even if she didn't like him, there was no cause to be uncivil. (At least not where the reporters could hear, anyways…)

The industrialist looked rather out-of-place in her apartment, Dana decided as she went to close the door. As she was about to close the door, the public defender saw a reporter trying to sneak down the hallway towards her apartment. Resisting the urge to make a rude gesture, she slammed the door shut and locked it.

She turned around and leaned against the closed door to observe the billionaire in her home. He was sitting on the sofa, looking a little awkward at the situation. _As well he should be_, Dana thought nastily.

"So," Dana said, pushing off the door, "why are you here?"

Fleming raised an eyebrow, as though he thought the answer should have been obvious. "To apologize, Mrs. Faraday," he replied. He smiled again, although this one seemed a little more genuine.

Dana looked over at her son, and saw him biting down on his fist. Trip's face was red; Dana supposed he was laughing, or trying very hard not to say something that would get him grounded.

"Of course you do," Dana replied demurely, sitting down on the arm of the sofa. She made a mental note to buy a larger one—she was still too close to the man responsible for Vince's death, and she was at the far end!

A quick look at Trip showed that he was just as uncomfortable as she was. He'd stopped biting his fist, and was looking anywhere but where Fleming sat. If the billionaire was aware of the fact that he'd come into a situation where he wasn't welcome, he didn't show any sign of it.

Dana took pity on her son first. "How do you take your coffee, Mr. Fleming?" she asked politely. She sincerely hoped that he took it with rat poison or cyanide, and was disappointed when he said black.

She stood up and made for the kitchen. "You can apologize to my son first. For his nightmares, and for his father's death." Dana looked over at Trip. "Sweetie, you have the right to chuck Mr. Fleming out. Try not to use it until I get back."

Trip saluted her and Dana headed for the kitchen. She could hear muted voices from the living room, and concentrated on that as she prepared the coffee.

Fleming sounded like he was trying to dumb down his explanation considerably. If he were anyone else, she would have encouraged her son to feed the man his teeth… A quick peek into the living room showed that her son wasn't appreciating the effort Fleming was trying to make.

She swept back into the living room bearing two cups of coffee. Trip wrinkled his nose as his mother handed one to the industrialist. His opinion on coffee was rather clear—it was horrible, and should be used to clean gutters or car parts.

"As I was saying to…Trip, was it?" Fleming asked. Trip rolled his eyes, but nodded after catching a warning look from his mother. "Thank you. As I was saying to Trip, I made a rather grievous error in judgment. The informant who sent in the tip has always been reliable in the past. I was sure that this time, he would be reliable as well. I was mistaken, it seems; and a good man died for that error."

Dana raised an eyebrow. "And who was this informant?" she asked. If he said it was one of the local criminals, she would know it was bullshit. She'd done quite a bit of talking with Scales that evening three weeks ago; the man had made his opinion of Fleming quite clear.

The smuggler had also stated—with absolute certainty—that no criminal in this town would willingly treat with the man, even on pain of death. As far as they were concerned, Fleming was bad for their business.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say," Fleming responded evenly, before taking a sip of his coffee. He made a face and set the mug down on the table.

Dana smirked. She hadn't poisoned it, but apparently Folgers was going to do the job for her. She'd have to write them a thank-you letter.

"Why not?" Trip spoke up, for the first time since he'd called for his mother twenty minutes earlier. He looked accusatory, almost daring the businessman not to answer him.

Fleming looked rather uncomfortable; to Dana, it looked like he was casting around for a politician's response. In short: he was going to feed them a load of bullshit. She had to wonder though, why he hadn't brought a camera crew—or even one of his bodyguards—into the apartment with him. One would think that he'd want to record this moment, to prove that he "wasn't a faceless bureaucrat".

Paranoia now in full swing, Dana walked over to the window and looked out. Was that a glint on the next rooftop? Was someone spying on her and her son in their home? She made a rude gesture, and yanked the curtains closed.

"There are…" Fleming started, licking his lips, "a number of reasons. Do you know what a confidentiality agreement is?" Trip nodded, and Fleming continued, looking somewhat relieved. "Well, my informant has one with me. He's given me a lot of information in the past—that's always proven reliable—in return for anonymity. If I told anyone who he was, I'd be breaking the law."

"And you'd just pay your way out," Trip muttered under his breath. Dana, who heard what he'd said, hid a smile behind her hand.

"Well, despite the lack of information," Dana said brightly, "Thank you for the apology. If you don't mind, my son and I have things we need to do." To reinforce the message, she crossed the living room to the front door. "Thank you for coming down here, Mr. Fleming."

Thankfully, the man got the hint and left. He kissed Dana's hand on the way out, and the public defender resisted the urge to grab the shotgun out of the closet when she saw the reporters crowding around her apartment door.

As soon as Fleming was gone, she leaned against the door and slid down it with a sigh of relief. "Thank God that's over," she muttered.

Dana looked up at Trip, who looked rather annoyed. "What do you say we have eggs for breakfast, huh?" she asked, standing up. "And we can imagine that it's Fleming's head we're cracking open instead."

Trip's answering grin was rather feral.

- o – o -

So, it's another chapter up, before the middle of August. Like it, hate it? Don't care either way? Drop a line and let me know!


	5. Revelations

Hey, it's an update! The muses finally cooperated, after a pot and a half of coffee...

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter five: Revelations

Orwell watched Vince warily. He'd been sulking for the last two days, and his mood hadn't gotten any better during the last three hours. If she didn't know him better, she would have hid everything he could have used to hurt himself—no one she knew sulked for that long without doing something drastic.

Admittedly, he had more reason than most to be unhappy, but it was still worrisome all the same. His name had been cleared two days ago by a mysterious informant who'd sent photos from every camera in Dockside to every major news agency in America. Vince was innocent, people in Palm City knew that Chess was still alive (and not, in fact, Vince himself)…but he still couldn't go home.

Whoever the mystery informant was, he or she had neglected to find any evidence of Peter Fleming and Chess being one and the same. Thus, Vince's current sulk.

The door banged open, startling the blogger and the vigilante out of their respective stupors. Vince was immediately on the alert and Orwell had her tazer out and charged up when they realized it was only Rollo. The little man grinned nervously when he saw the weapons and held his hands up.

"I come in peace," Rollo said. He breathed a sigh of relief when the two lowered their weapons—Vince put the throwing knife back under his pillow, and Orwell turned the tazer off.

"Hey Rollo," Vince said by way of a greeting as he flopped back down on the mattress. The entire bed swayed and creaked alarmingly, drawing some concerned looks from the three congregated in Vince's lair. "What's up?"

Rollo scratched the back of his head, looking rather nervous. "It's not good, Vince…" the diminutive carnie finally muttered.

Vince groaned in reply and buried his face in his pillow. "Shoot me," he said, voice muffled by the fabric. "Someone just shoot me."

Orwell sighed, grinning at Rollo. "So what's the bad news, then?" the blogger asked, shutting her laptop's cover. She rested her elbows on the tabletop, waiting for the reply. If Rollo felt the need to come here on a matter that wasn't related to booze or the carnival, it was _really_ bad news.

"Well, you know how we saw Dana dancing with that scaly bastard three weeks ago?" Rollo started, clearly uncomfortable. Vince sat up, now interested in what his friend had to say. Orwell perked up as well. News from gangland, even if it involved her partner's wife, was always a blessing.

Vince swung his legs over the side of his bed and sat there, apparently waiting for more news. Rollo inexplicably tensed. When he dropped the bombshell of information on Vince the next minute, it was apparent _why_.

"Well, apparently it's gone a little beyond that now," Rollo said. "One of my friends on the docks—not gonna tell you who," he added, seeing Vince's face, "swears that she was in his warehouse this morning. Both of them stumbled in around midnight, drunk out of their minds. Scales escorts her to his room, and no one sees either of them emerge until about six-thirty this morning when that bastard comes down to get coffee."

Orwell later decided it was a miracle that Vince hadn't fallen off his bed or fainted out of shock. That didn't, however, stop the vigilante from running after Rollo with a murderous expression on his face. Orwell decided that trying to stop Vince wasn't worth it—there were times when it was, and this wasn't one of them.

The blogger watched Rollo scramble out the door of the lair and head for Trolley Park. Vince tripped over a trailing cord, swore at Orwell's computers, and pelted out the door after the dwarf. She could still hear her partner swearing several minutes after he'd scrambled out the door.

She sighed and walked over to the hot plate where Vince had left his coffeepot again. Hopefully the coffee had finished warming up while Vince and Rollo had been running around.

- - o - -

Dana scowled at her cup of coffee as though it were the source of her troubles. Vince's coffee can of medals sat on the table in front of her, innocuous as always. Neither object was the source of her frustrations, however. No, that honor was reserved for the news report currently running.

Peter Fleming had lifted shamelessness to an art form. There _had_ been a reporter perched on the rooftop across the street (her gesture hadn't been put in, thank God). Somehow, he'd managed to manipulate the entire situation in his favor…and now the media practically expected her to _thank_ him for it.

She snorted, and gulped down another mouthful of scalding coffee. Trip had gone up to the roof to escape the phone calls and the reporters congregating outside their door, and she was honestly thinking of joining him.

To think: two days ago, she would have given anything for her husband to be declared innocent. Now, she just wanted peace and quiet even if it meant her husband was still thought to be guilty. She wondered…

How was it that no reporter could check a few simple dates? That seemed like a massive failing to her—Vince had been in Iraq when Chess started killing people. Who owned the media, and would benefit the most? Peter Fleming—after Vince had been murdered, he gained control of…

Dana swore and leapt up from the table. If that line of thinking was right, she was going to need some serious proof. She grabbed one of the many notepads laying around her apartment, a pencil, and hurried back to her seat at the kitchen table.

If Peter Fleming wanted something that he couldn't get through legal channels, he'd figure something else out. What was a good tool? Fear. If people were afraid, they'd give anything to the person who saved them. What was Palm City afraid of? Chess.

And if you killed Chess, thus removing the fear, than you could acquire what you wanted while still looking like a paragon of virtue. If Chess wasn't dead, than…

Dana's pencil dropped from her hand and hit the tabletop with a dull thunk. Oh god. Chess and Peter Fleming had been working together from the start. Her husband had learned this—possibly—and paid for it.

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed as the realization hit her. The man who'd helped orchestrate her husband's murder had been in her apartment, apologizing for his death.

Dana wasn't even aware when her son came back down from the roof, talking about his latest meeting with the Cape.

- o – o -

Well, Dana's on the right path at least. She hasn't gotten there yet, but she might!

Chapter five: like it? Hate it? Think Dana should pay more attention to things? Drop a line and let me know!


	6. In which Scales is confused

It's an update! The muses cooperated on the second attempt! Yay!

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

In which Scales is confused and Vince is a moron

All in all, Scales was rather pleased with how his temporary bout of altruism had paid off. The press was really taking the piss where Fleming was concerned; he himself had quite possibly incurred some good will from a normal human of the opposite sex.

Dana Faraday. Now there was an enigma, in more ways than one. A small smile played around his lips as he recalled the truly remarkable woman. She had been respectful—and had treated him with something approaching kindness—even after clearly expressing her fear of him being so close to her and her son.

He sighed again. It was a pity she was so dedicated to her husband, dead as he was. Forming a romantic attachment with the public defender would have been interesting. Of course, now that she had closure, perhaps she'd begin to move on…

Scales shook that thought off with a grimace. The drinking had probably ruined any chances he'd had with her. There was also no way Dana Faraday would look past his obvious differences—moral or otherwise.

The smuggler deliberately turned away from that line of thought and headed out of the warehouse. It was nearly half past eight, and the local strays would be showing up for a meal. He grabbed a five-pound bag of cat food off the shelf against the back wall, grinning at the thought of the strays. Cats seemed to be the most intelligent creatures on this earth; and, as long as you fed them, they were completely loyal to you.

A mere twenty minutes later, the strays were assembled and eating the food their human left out for them. Scales watched them with something akin to affection on his face, before walking in the opposite direction. As much as the cats liked him, they were still suspicious little buggers when it came to food.

(Having been in the same position for his entire childhood, the smuggler couldn't blame them.)

The weather was unseasonably warm for early February, but not as warm as it had been a month ago. Scales shrugged out of his jacket and folded it over one arm. No need to court heat stroke again; he'd learned his lesson during the heat wave.

The attack was entirely unexpected; after all, there were very few among the living who would attack the smuggler on his own turf. Considering who it was, though, Scales didn't exactly blame him. The Cape had a well-known reputation for idiocy.

"Hello Scales," the deep, scratchy voice rasped in his ear. Scales would have replied, except for the vigilante's signature cape wrapped around his throat. As it was, he could only make inarticulate gasping noises as he choked.

"Now that I have your attention," the vigilante continued. "What are you planning with Dana Faraday? She's suffered enough without a guy like you hanging around her."

Scales stiffened and stopped tugging at the thick band of cloth wrapped around his neck. How did this silly wanker know about Dana, and the dalliance that might not have happened? Bugger all; he really needed to update his security!

The band of cloth loosened, and the smuggler took a deep rasping breath. The vigilante stepped back as the smuggler regained his breath, looking ready for action.

"What's your bloody angle?" Scales rasped, massaging his throat. The smuggler had to wonder what had prompted him to leave his gun at the warehouse…before realizing that he hadn't thought to bring it because he was on his turf. The smuggler made an on-the-spot resolution to never be unarmed again.

"Dana Faraday," the vigilante repeated, sounding rather cross and annoyed. The glint in his eye reminded Scales, rather uncomfortably, of his dear ol' dad when the wanker was in a right sorry mood. "Stay away from her, Scales. She doesn't need any more problems."

Scales rolled his eyes, still massaging his throat. "Wot th' bloody effin' hell are you on about?" he swore at his opponent, rasping. "I ain't done nuffin' with th' cop's widow!" He realized that the defensive tone was nearly an admission of guilt, but didn't really care.

The vigilante must have somehow connected him with the information leak about Dana's dead husband. The Cape had probably gotten the information from his boyfriend, Orwell the blogger (or Orwell the bloody pain in my arse, as Scales referred to the man.)

(According to popular rumor, the vigilante was banging the blogger.)

"Then what was she doing in your warehouse at six in the morning?" Cape returned, expression turning rather ugly. "Listen closely, Scales," he continued in the same raspy voice, "I want you to stay well away from the Faraday family. If you don't…"

And now he had no privacy. Scales sighed. If the vigilante was fishing for bad gossip, he might as well help the man hang himself. Time to see if the hero could spot misinformation…

"Nah," Scales replied, grinning lecherously. He just knew he was going to regret this later… "I don' think I will. In fact…I think I'll e'en bring 'er back for another round." The smuggler knew he was playing with fire at this point, and couldn't really care. He'd apologize to the bird if he saw her again.

The second attack wasn't a surprise, but the smuggler was prepared for it. Scales sidestepped neatly and watched as the vigilante overshot his mark. There was a resounding splash as the Cape hit the water, accompanied by a small plume of water from the impact.

Scales honestly had no idea how the vigilante had gotten information on his warehouse, but made a resolution to update security. For now, though, he was going back to the warehouse. As the Yanks said, something was rotten in the state of Denmark.

How badly would Dana take it if he sent her a bodyguard…?

- - o - -

Vince groaned as he stumbled back into the lair. After catapulting himself off the docks, he'd somehow managed to sail into a pier. He had discovered two very useful things, however. One: Scales had definitely been up to something with Dana. Two: whoever had constructed the pier had done a very good job.

The vigilante began stripping his sopping costume off, muttering under his breath about morally bankrupt smugglers. It was bad enough that the man worked with Fleming, but did he have to move in on Vince's old life as well?

If he had any doubts in his mind about Scales before, they had vanished completely.

Vince threw his clothes in the general direction of a hamper before clambering up onto his bed. In the morning, he'd go to the carnival, and see if Max could help him arrange some protection for Dana.

No matter what the smuggler's intentions were, there was something sinister behind his relationship with Vince's wife.

- o – o -

So, what do you think? Like it? Hate it? Think Scales should have beaten Vince? Drop a line and let me know!


	7. Baiting for Dummies

Chapter seven heats things up a bit-or just turns people into idiots...

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter seven: Baiting for Dummies

Scales sat in his office, a large mug of tea cooling by his elbow. A set of blueprints lay on the desk, practically forgotten by the smuggler. He was mentally retracing the events of the past half-hour; more specifically, his meeting with the Cape. It had left a bad taste in his mouth for more than one reason.

For one: he'd been rather crude about his relationship (as it was) with Dana Faraday. There had really been no call for that, and Dana didn't deserve it. Scales sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. No doubt the moth-eaten rag would be keeping a much closer watch over the lovely Mrs. Faraday from now on. Meeting with her would be much harder now…

For another, it rankled that he'd been so easily overpowered in the heart of his territory. He'd always felt more secure—for a given value of the word—in the heart of Dockside than anywhere else, but now… Scales grimaced, taking a sip of tea.

Security was important, for more reasons than he cared to name. The Cape had proven that his security wasn't up to scratch, and now he had to change that—_before_ anyone else decided to take a crack at his territory.

Scales' train of thought was interrupted when Noodle poked his head through the open door. "Boss?" he said quietly. Scales looked up, eyebrows raised. "Chess is on the docks," Noodle said. He withdrew quickly, most likely out of some sense of self-preservation.

No one in Dockside liked Chess; mentioning the man around Scales was tantamount to suicide some days.

"Just bloody wonderful," Scales muttered, rubbing his throat with a wince. "Jus' wot I wanted t' end my day…" The smuggler hauled himself upright and grabbed his suit jacket off the coat rack. He half wondered what that pretentious little wanker wanted _now_…

- - o - -

Chess was surrounded by his usual cadre of ARK troops when Scales and his men arrived. The smuggler snorted in derision when he saw the killer draw back behind his guards. Now there was a man who'd never had to fight his own battles. _Pathetic_, Scales thought, _absolutely pathetic_.

"So," Scales said genially, "What's so important that it—"

Chess held up a hand, scowling. Scales noted that the man looked rather annoyed, and smirked. "Quiet, Mr. Raoul," Chess snapped. "I have no desire to hear about your social life. What I'm interested in are my missing shipments and the photographs that seem to have come from _your_ cameras."

Scales shrugged, leaning on his cane. His knee had healed weeks ago, but there was no sense in giving up an extra weapon. "I can't 'elp you there, my friend," he replied. He smirked at Chess, and continued. "Things go missin' all the time down 'ere. An' somehow, I thought you'd be pleased by the information…Faraday."

It was a calculated move on his part. He had no reason to believe that Chess was Faraday, but it made about as much sense as accusing Fleming. (Which was to say that neither option made sense from the smuggler's point of view.)

If Chess was annoyed at being called Faraday, he didn't show it. "I wonder at your intelligence," the man snarled, "if you can _somehow_ misplace a half-ton of some of the most volatile explosives in the world!"

Scales' face froze into an ugly mask. There was quite a bit he could stand, especially in the way of physical pain. Insults, though, were another matter entirely. If that was how this berk wanted to play, so be it…

"Faraday," he drawled, drawing closer to the masked man, "Do I look like I give two shites about your explosives?" He smirked at the ARK guards, who drew back warily. Scales threw an arm around the smaller man's shoulders and drew him a short distance away from the assembled lackeys.

"For another thing," Scales added in a harsh whisper, "I don't give a shite about your personal life either, but I do about your bird." He felt Chess flinch under his grasp, and sighed. This was going to be a _long_ night—despite the fact that something told him Chess had no more connection to the Faradays than a lorry did to a Ferari.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Chess replied in a soft snarl. Scales saw him throw a wary look back at his men.

"Well bugger me," Scales snarled back. "Wot's with leavin' the poor girl 'angin' when she thinks you're dead, mate? Lookin' to kill someone for poachin' your bird, then?"

Chess attempted to draw back, a look of disgust on his face. "Listen here, Dominic," he snarled, "I have no idea what game you're playing, but—"

It was Scales' turn to feel superior now. "Oh, I'm sure you do, my friend. See, your wife is rather distraught abou' your apparent demise, m'lad."

He'd grabbed the idea on the spur of the moment and decided to run with it. The biggest question was whether or not Chess _had _been Faraday. Was he doing the right thing, riling the psychopath up? For that matter, would Dana and her son be all right if this course of action fell through?

Scales gave a mental shrug. Consequences could be dealt with as they came. Right now, he was going to do what he did best.

"This conversation is over," Chess snapped, annoyed now. He attempted to leave, only for Scales to stop him again. The smuggler grabbed his sort-of ally's jaw and forced the man to meet his gaze. Scales' face was filled with mixed emotions, the most apparent of which was pure, unadulterated _loathing_.

"No it is _not_," Scales snarled. He caught sight of his boys keeping the ARK soldiers occupied and made a mental note to give them a bonus later. "Don' try to play games wi' me, m'lad," he continued. "Your bird is missin' you somet'in' fierce.

"Of course," he added with a lecherous grin, "I c'n always keep 'er company for you. Leastways until you come to your senses, you silly bugger."

The look on Chess' face answered all of Scales' question for him. One: Chess was _not_ Vince Faraday. Two: the murderer was about as mad as Norris. Three: he'd just made a right mess of everything. Four: those bodyguards for Dana and Trip were going to be really handy in the near future.

He formed his face into a look of utmost disgust and thrust the killer away from him. "Ge' off my docks, you sick shite, while you've still the go' the means to do so," Scales snarled, pulling his gun out.

His lackeys took their cue from Scales and began herding the ARK soldiers back to their vans. After they had left the docks, and only the faintest glow of their taillights was visible, Scales turned to Kazzie.

"Yeah boss?" Kazzie asked, straightening up imperceptibly.

"Contact those silly tits from the Morrison job. I've go' a business opportunity for 'em."

- o – o -

So, like it? Hate it? Think it should be killed with fire? Drop a line and let me know!

(Also-if any of my readers from the UK would be willing to britpick this for me, please drop a line. It would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.)


	8. Unwelcome News

It's an update! Dana gets a bodyguard and deals with a few idiots.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter eight: Unwelcome News

Dana pulled her pillow over her head and groaned as someone began pounding on the door. It was seven-thirty on a Sunday morning, which made it _far_ to early for anyone decent to be up and about. Whoever it was had better be a fast runner, Dana thought as her pillow failed to block out the hammering.

After another minute of incessant pounding, Dana sat up. Any chance of going back to sleep with that racket was close to nil. She passed by Trip's room on the way to the front door, and noted fondly that he was rather like Vince—both of them could sleep through the next world war, and wake up wondering why there was a draft around their toes.

The public defender muttered a few choice Polish curses under her breath as she tripped over her son's backpack on her way to the front door. He was definitely going to have to keep it in his bedroom now…

She stopped at the front door, rubbing her eyes and yawning. If it was her landlord, she was going to make him come back at a reasonable hour; if it was Travis, he was going to be forced to leave and then call back at a reasonable hour… And if it were a certain deformed smuggler, she was going to introduce his skull to her coffeepot.

A quick check through the peephole had Dana mentally running over the current prices for coffeepots. If there was a sale on, she'd definitely splurge. Maybe she'd get one of those thermal coffeepots that kept her caffeine hot for hours on end after this one kicked the bucket…

With a sigh, Dana opened the front door as wide as the chain would allow. It opened wide enough to let her talk without shouting, but narrow enough to keep the smuggler out. He smiled down at her, and Dana instantly hated him for looking so awake and chipper this early in the morning.

"Mornin' ducky," Scales said cheerfully, still blissfully unaware of the danger he was in. "Cup o' coffee, luv?" He held up a Styrofoam cup, letting the smell of fresh, hot coffee waft into the apartment. Dana's hatred of the smuggler lessened somewhat. Well, if he'd brought coffee, than he wasn't _all_ bad.

She still wasn't going to let him in though. There was no reason for him to be calling this early in the morning. Dana reached through the gap between the door and the sill to take the proffered cup, and held it up to her nose. She inhaled the rich aroma, and felt just a little more awake.

"Better?" Scales asked, leaning casually against the wall so he could see Dana as he talked. She nodded, taking a sip of the coffee. Most of her homicidal thoughts towards the smuggler disappeared as the caffeine jump-started her higher brain functions.

"Much," Dana agreed, taking another sip of the coffee. She noted that her visitor was dressed casually again—jeans, a flannel shirt, and a plain white t-shirt. Odd… Dana scowled at him over the lip of her cup. "You didn't poison this, did you?"

He shook his head, and Dana raised an eyebrow. "Why do I have the feeling I normally get if Trip's just broken something? …What have you done?" The smuggler shuffled awkwardly, reinforcing Dana's suspicions.

"Er…" Scales muttered, chewing on his lower lip. He scratched the back of his head, as though trying to stall for time. Despite the humanizing traits, they were still horribly out of place on the man's face. He was _definitely_ nervous about _something_.

Dana sighed, and resisted the urge to bang her forehead against the doorjamb. Wonderful; this was just freakin' _wonderful_. If the situation had a well-known (possibly crazy) criminal worried, than it was _really_ BAD.

"Well…" Scales rubbed the back of his neck again, looking rather like Vince the time he'd attempted to explain _why_ Trip had a black eye after a game of catch. "Uh… Ye realize 'm a criminal, right luv?"

Dana nodded warily, wondering if she could reach her phone in time. What was the response time for ARK troops to a bomb threat…?

"An' y' remember when I ga' ye t' pictures o' tha' berk, Chess?" His accent, Dana noted absently, seemed to get thicker when he was nervous. Dana nodded again, sipping her coffee. "Well…." Scales trailed off again, looking even more nervous—if that was possible.

"Do my son and I need to flee the country?" Dana asked, completely deadpan.

"Tha' migh' be a good idea," Scales replied brightly. He looked _much_ happier than he had ten minutes ago; Dana stared at him, incredulous. She'd only been joking, for God's sake!

"_What_," she asked frostily, "have you done?"

Scales scuffed one shoe along the floor, looking rather like a boy who'd just put a baseball through his neighbor's window for the third time that month.

"Imigh'aveaccidentallyse'anutteronyebecauseIwa'arigh'stupidtit," Scales said hurriedly. Dana blinked uncomprehendingly. There was no way to understand what he'd just said. One: he'd said it faster than most over-caffeinated children, and two—his accent made in an incomprehensible jumble.

Dana tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for a coherent reply.

"Err…I migh' 'ave accidentally se' a nutter on ye'," Scales muttered to the floor, not looking at Dana. "I was bein' a ruddy stupid tit, an' I don' know wot I was thinkin' at th' time, an' now th' man's as mad as Norris... Erm…" He looked up again, still chewing on his lower lip. "Woul' ye take it amiss if I ga' ye an' yer nipper a bodyguard or two?"

Dana sighed, burying her face in her free hand. Was it too late to go back to bed and pretend this was all a weird dream? And now, she was _sure_ she would have preferred everyone to believe her husband was Chess. At least _that_ hadn't brought nervous criminals to her door at seven in the damn morning! On a Sunday!

The public defender glowered at Scales, who looked down at the ground. For some reason, he looked rather like a puppy someone had kicked.

Dana sighed again, put her coffee down on the side table, and unbolted the door. "Who, exactly," she asked warily as she opened the door wider, "are you proposing to set as a watchdog?"

She had barely a second to worry as Scales' face lit up with a grin that could have powered Vegas for a week.

Dana tapped her pen against her chin as she contemplated the newest file on the three-foot stack that took up most of her workspace. It was, at least, a good distraction from the man sitting outside her office. She'd been expecting mercenaries from a known company—like Blackwater—and had instead received six ex-Hell's Angels.

The current body guard was a seven-foot tall wall of muscle named Taylor. To complete the obligatory surreal image, he was perusing a Constitutional law book and seemed to understand it. Dana sighed. Yesterday, she'd had to deal with a nervous criminal who'd apparently done something incredibly stupid that put her and Trip in serious danger.

Today, she had to figure out how to explain the three ex-bikers who were following her in eight-hour shifts. Kia had actually hit it off with Taylor after she'd given him the law book. Travis, on the other hand, was rather leery of the man.

Was it even remotely possible that she was just in a coma and this was all some sort of strange, drug-induced dream…? Considering everything that had happened in the last two weeks, Dana thought that it might actually be preferable.

It would, she decided as she watched the former biker peruse the thick law book; make all of this so much easier to comprehend. Her current watcher had been in jail six years ago for armed robbery…with a park bench.

The public defender groaned and dropped her head onto the pile of files. It was going to be a _long_ week… After a few minutes, Dana straightened up and attempted to drag her mind back to the case at hand.

Travis had brought her in on it as soon as she'd walked in that morning to get another perspective on it. Her boss had confided, as he'd given her a copy of the file, that he wasn't sure he'd be able to resist strangling the man. Given that he'd been involved in an aborted terrorist attack, Dana couldn't exactly blame her boss.

Preston Holloway was a certified nut, through and through. She was currently debating the merits of the death penalty versus life without parole in a secure ward.

She was jolted out of her thoughts by the phone ringing. On the other end was a representative of ARK. Mr. Holloway had apparently changed his mind about having legal counsel; the services of the Palm City Public Defender's Office were no longer needed. As Mr. Hall's secretary, would she please pass this message along to him?

Dana muttered something that might have been an affirmative and put the phone back in the cradle. "Secretary?" she hissed, jabbing her pen at Holloway's file. "Secretary? Oooh, I'm gonna—" She growled a few more Polish curses under her breath and threw Holloway's file onto the "Kill it with Fire" pile.

After a few seconds, she slumped forward and let her forehead hit the desk with a dull thunk. "Why can't I have normal problems like everyone else?" she muttered into the wood.

At the end of the day, it was almost a relief that Kia and Travis convinced her to go out for drinks with them. And if her bodyguard disapproved of her hanging out with her _male_ boss… Who gave a damn?

- o – o -

So, what do you think? Too rushed? To slow or confusing? Drop a line and let me know!


	9. Connect the Dots

Chapter nine is here! Dana plays connect-the-dots and learns something new.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter nine: Connect the dots

Dana was fairly sure she was turning into a conspiracy nut like Orwell. She was sitting at her kitchen table, a mug of tea in one hand and a pencil held loosely in the other. A notepad filled with minute writing rested in front of her.

The public defender was pretty sure she should have been in bed hours ago, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins after helping a masked vigilante break into ARK wasn't helping. And, Dana noted, the mug of tea probably wasn't helping matters either.

She sighed and placed the mug on the table. After eight—nearly nine—months of thinking her son was crazy, she'd been proven wrong in a spectacular fashion. It stung, and worried her at the same time. Why was a masked man visiting her son—her _underage_ son—after dark, on a roof?

It was rather suspicious, and it worried her to no end.

Dana added that concern to the growing list in front of her. She'd been at this since eleven pm, and had still gotten nowhere. Even trying to make an influence map had proved fruitless. After all, there was _no_ way that ARK was behind everything that had happened in recent months…

She had, however, managed to create a conspiracy that would put Orwell to shame. Dana smirked at that thought, and took a sip of her lukewarm tea. She half-wondered if the rumors about the blogger and the vigilante were true...

Dana looked at her pages of notes and sighed, rubbing her temples in exasperation. Everything was leading back to ARK's take-over of the police force. And while she wasn't discounting that as a primary motivation (even with taking their involvement with Chess into account), it seemed…unlikely.

One: the Cape had quasi-supernatural powers that included (but were probably not limited to) teleportation, mind control, and necromancy. And, either he was in contact with her husband's ghost, or he was still alive. The vigilante had, after all, kept referring to Vince in the present tense.

(A voice in the back of her head—that sounded suspiciously like Scales, for some reason—said that the vigilante was either delusional or her husband was back from the dead; or had never died… Dana ignored it.)

Two: the Cape was following her, and her son. She didn't know why, and quite frankly it disturbed her. On the drive to the public defender's office, he'd questioned her extensively about Scales. And why had he been so insistent that she avoid Scales at all costs? Well, aside from the _obvious_, of course, Dana amended silently.

Dana sighed, tapping her pencil on the table. What was she missing? And was the vigilante a threat to her son? He'd practically told Trip to keep his existence a secret from her; a grown man, telling a young, vulnerable child to keep their meetings secret. It was highly suspicious.

Grown men who were mentally sound did _not_ run around in a costume, pretending to be a superhero, and visit young children in the middle of the night.

Dana chewed on her lower lip for a minute, before adding the concern to the end of an already exhaustive list on another pad of paper. Well, how much of a threat was he going to pose to Trip? Her son knew how to box, and she _had_ been thinking about giving him a can of mace…

Another niggling thought bothered her a bit more. The man who called himself the Cape did seem to _genuinely_ believe that he was a superhero. Surrealism aside, his mental health was questionable at this point.

Dana sighed, rubbing her eyes. She really ought to go to bed, because the idea of a deranged man talking to her son in the middle of the night wasn't bothering her as much as it logically _should_.

Dancing criminals who made jokes, mafia dons who put protection around the wife of a deceased cop, and masked vigilantes… Was anything _ever_ going to make sense again?

Vince, at least, would have loved this…

Dana froze mid-thought. Occam's Razor. _Think Dana_, she chided herself, _think_. What is Occam's Razor in this scenario? Find the simplest explanation…

Her husband's body had never been recovered by the coroner. ARK press officers had claimed the remains were too damaged to be classified as Vince's, and had then denied that any remains existed at all… Two months after that, rumors of a vigilante began surfacing in Trolley Park.

If she recalled her college days correctly, there were service tunnels under the train yards. She'd played Dungeons and Dragons there years ago…

The timing of the Cape's appearance and her husband's death were a little too coincidental for her taste. Either the Cape had been an indigent who'd rescued her husband, or her husband _was_ the Cape.

Her train of thought was derailed by someone knocking on the door. A glance at the kitchen clock made her seriously consider ignoring whoever was knocking. There was only one person she knew (aside from Trip) who would be up this late—or early, depending on how someone viewed one in the morning.

She gave in after the knocking turned into an insistent beating.

Dana's suspicions were confirmed the second she opened the peephole to take a look into the hallway. The friendly neighborhood smuggler was standing outside her apartment, looking decidedly worried.

_Well shit_.

Dana opened the door as far as the chain would allow leaned against the doorjamb to watch the agitated smuggler. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, and constantly clenching and unclenching his hands. The smuggler looked, dare she say it, worried and scared.

"Mr. Raoul?" she asked quietly, not wanting to provoke the man into one of his infamous rages. The smuggler stopped his agitated movements quite suddenly and looked up at her. Relief clearly showed in his eyes, and how his posture instantly relaxed.

"Mrs. Faraday," he said, a small smile gracing his lips. "You're all right." He sounded almost relieved, Dana thought.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asked, crossing her arms. The smuggler rubbed his throat absentmindedly, appearing to be mentally composing a reply.

"Well…" Scales rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I 'eard ye wen' ou' with th' Cape," he muttered in reply. "I was worried abou' ye… Di' ye know th' Cape's been 'angin' aroun' the docks?" he asked in an apparent change of subject.

Dana nodded warily, wondering where he was going with this. Did it have something to do with the bikers who were following her and her son whenever they left the apartment? And then Scales answered the question for her.

"Alrigh'," Scales muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. "A few nights back, th' blackbird came to me docks, wantin' a word abou' ye. 'e made some remarks wot 'ad me worried. Same night, I gets a visit from Chess, see."

Dana raised an eyebrow, and wondered if it were possible to kill the smuggler by thinking hard enough about it. The man in question grinned nervously at her, as if he'd guessed what she'd been thinking.

"I migh' 'ave made an error in me judgment," Scales continued; Dana noted that his accent was getting thicker. The smuggler was definitely agitated about _something_.

"So imagine me surprise," he continued, "when I 'ear tha' ye've been runnin' aroun' wiv a certain masked character wot 'as designs regardin' you."

His tone had gotten much darker than in previous conversations and he sounded positively menacing now. Dana glanced worriedly at her think door and the two-dollar chain holding it partly closed, half-wondering if they'd hold up against an enraged gun-toting lunatic with rage issues.

"When I sen' th' bodyguards," Scales continued in the same softly menacing voice, "it was because I don' wan' t' lose ye t' some nutter wot can't tell th' difference between fiction an' reality. Th' blackbird's dangerous, me luv."

Dana stared at her visitor openly; her mouth was probably hanging open in shock, but she couldn't really bring herself to care at that point.

This _had_ to be the product of the evening's break-in combined with late-night pizza. Because there was absolutely _no_ way that Scales—a violent criminal with a reputation for beating people to death—had come by her apartment just to make sure she was safe and deliver a warning.

"It is too early for this," Dana muttered into her hands, leaning against the doorjamb. She looked up at her visitor, and sighed. "While I have my own problems with the man," Dana admitted, "I think he knows where my husband is."

It was Scales' turn to look shocked. And then the look turned from shock to one of quiet thoughtfulness. Scales had reached the same conclusion that Dana had fifteen minutes beforehand.

The Cape was, in all likelihood, Vince Faraday, alive and well.

- o – o -

So, what do you think? Good? Bad? Kill it with fire and find something else? Drop a line and let me know!

Side note: I return to classes on Monday. Updates are no longer guarenteed to occur at least once a week.


	10. The Socalled Rebel Alliance

Le gasp! Could it be? Is this a new chapter...? Why yes, yes it is.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

The So-called Rebel Alliance

Controlling gang lords was like herding cats, Scales thought as he watched the taillights of Fleming's limo recede into the distance. From experience, however, the smuggler knew that cats responded better than gang lords. The dockland strays, for example, would follow whoever fed them.

The events of the meeting had disturbed the smuggler, to say the least. If Fleming had made a deal with him to, say, keep the drug lords from selling their wares outside of primaries, he'd have agreed in a heartbeat. But the billionaire had wanted Scales to take control of Palm City—excluding the business district, of course.

Fleming wanted to protect his reputation with the media…all so he could get a contract with the bleeding Chinese military. Scales didn't personally know much about the Chinese, or their military, but he sincerely hoped that the Palm City Triad kept in close contact with the motherland.

This was one problem Scales neither wanted nor needed, on top of his current dilemma with the Cape and his secret identity (or what it might be, at any rate). Fleming wanted the smuggler to do his dirty work for him.

Scales sighed heavily, rolling his massive shoulders back in an attempt to relieve the tension that had built up during the meeting. As far as his enemy was now concerned, he'd be bringing the gang lords in line with ARK's goals.

_Why_ had he agreed so quickly? He had to admit the prospect of that much power was tempting, but it had a price that he was loathe to pay. In return for that power, he'd have to sacrifice the respect of his colleagues (such as it was), and the loyalty of his employees.

If he took this offer, he'd probably disappear like Czyjak had.

Edwin Czyjak had controlled the business district for nearly thirty years. Seven months after ARK had arrived in Palm City, he'd vanished. It was rumored that he'd been giving information on the local gangs to Fleming in exchange for free reign in the business district, without ARK interference.

A week after that rumor had started flying, he'd vanished. What the rumor mill wasn't quite clear on was whether ARK had been responsible for the disappearance, or an irate fellow gang lord. (The odds were currently in favor of a fellow gang lord.)

Scales sighed again and looked around the lot. His minions—his _family_—were milling about. Despite their best attempts not to look worried, it showed rather plainly on their faces. Given that the nearest local equivalent of the anti-Christ had just made a pact with their boss, it was understandable.

Peter Fleming was playing some twisted game, and acquiring contracts from foreign militaries wasn't part of it. The man wanted something from the gangs, and he wanted them united under one banner. A banner he knew (or at least thought) he could control, preferably.

Scales had to smirk at that. If Fleming had known that the criminals in Palm City generally behaved like cats, or that they got along as well as petrol and a lit match, he might not have bothered at all…

The smuggler groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. This was shaping up along the lines of another bollocksed-up take-over attempt. It had been about fifteen years ago, when he himself had been green and getting his feet wet in the areas of racketeering and smuggling.

A Sicilian from one of the big families back in New York had attempted to move his operations in Palm City. Upon his arrival, he'd practically demanded help from the more…_pure_ families. Needless to say, the local Italian mafia family had not been impressed.

If there had been one source of complete unity back in those days, it was a Molinari who'd been scorned. The result of their distaste had all of the police departments reeling in shock. The gangs formed one of the largest united fronts on the west coast, the likes of which hadn't been seen since the 1940s; they had then proceeded to run the Sicilian out of Palm.

If he recalled that year correctly, the alliance had collapsed shortly thereafter. Provisions had been put in place, however…just in case another foreign influence ever attempted another takeover. And now Fleming was the Sicilian all over again…

For some reason, Scales grinned. Now there was a way to solve this situation… "Kazzie!" he bellowed, startling the large man. "Shift your arse, you dozy bastard!"

The man strode over, an apprehensive look on his face. Considering that meetings with the local anti-Christ always had the smuggler on edge, it wasn't too hard to guess why. "Boss?" he asked nervously.

"Pass us the blows, old son," Scales replied, a dark grin spreading over his face. "I'm calling a meet."

Kazzie handed over the cell phone without a word.

- o -

Scales leaned back in his chair, watching the gang lords eye each other suspiciously over the table as they sat down. Surprisingly, the majority of them had arrived.

His primary ally, Poker Face, was seated at his right hand. Despite the Italian's initial reluctance to attend the meet (possibly due to being woken up at three in the morning), he'd been the first to show his face at Scales' warehouse.

Across from the Italian was Scales' _least_ favorite person. Max Malini had received an unusual invitation, even by gangland standards. Beating an enforcer to a pulp, just to send an invitation, was considered a bit excessive. As this was Scales, however, that little courtesy had been quietly ignored.

The magician and the don were scowling at each other, and appeared to be attempting to kill each other with their eyes alone. That, or it was a one-sided staring contest that Poker Face would win, as he was physically incapable of blinking.

Half an hour later, the rest of the gang lords (and lady, Scales amended silently, upon seeing the head of the Russian mob) had arrived and were seated around the massive oak table that dominated the center of Scales' warehouse.

Molinari was the first to speak. "Dominic," the Italian said, voice raspy from an apparent lack of sleep. "Everyone is here. What is this about? You called a meet at three in the morning; I think everyone," he gestured to himself and the other gang lords, "deserve an explanation. A good one," the don added with a scowl—or as much of one as someone who couldn't blink was able.

Scales stood up and leaned against his chair. He always spoke and thought better if he weren't confined in some way. The smuggler decided to show his hand before anything could get in the way. "Las' nigh'," the deformed smuggler started, "I go' a visit from a tosser everyone 'ere knows well."

He smirked as everyone, even Malini, sat up straighter at that statement. These days, anything related to ARK or Fleming would get the speaker the full and undivided attention of everyone in the room. After that, one had to be careful of how they continued their speech…

"Peter Fleming wants gangland united under a banner 'e can control," Scales said. He waited for the outraged yelling to die down.

The representative from the Russian mob, a woman named Anastasia, gave an un-ladylike snort of derision. "And how do you know that?" she asked with a smirk, leaning back in her seat. It was apparent that she was confident that she held the high ground now.

Scales smirked back and began pacing around the assembled gang lords like a hungry wolf. "I know," he said, "Because Fleming tol' me." The deformed smuggler leaned against the back of Poker Face's chair.

"Well fuck that," a lighter voice spoke up. It said something of their willpower that the assembled gang lords, or their representatives, didn't shoot the speaker. Li'l Z was an up-and-coming in the world of drugs and armed robbery. Unfortunately, that didn't save him from being a mouthy bastard.

"What I wanna know," the drug dealer continued, "is how this dude knows Fleming. Seems kinda suspicious, don't it, that this guy gets the personal calls from the devil, an' we don' hear nothin' about it?" He grinned, looking pleased with himself.

"Funny y' should ask tha'," Scales said, pacing back to the drug dealer's chair. He leaned over the younger man, grinning darkly. "Fleming thinks tha', because I ain' shot 'im yet, I tolerate 'im."

The deformed smuggler grinned at his colleagues. "Fleming wants me to take o'er gangland, an' 'e wants me t' turn control o'er t' 'im. An' because I'm so bleedin' loyal," he added sarcastically, "'e thinks I'll do it."

After a few minutes, Poker Face spoke. "You want us to run him out, like the Sicilian," the don said quietly. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"Tha's abou' i'," Scales replied, nodding. He saw the confused look on Li'l Z's face and sighed. "Few years back," the smuggler started, "a Sicilian from New York comes into Palm City. Th' lad figures tha', because 'e's a big man back east, 'e can be a big man ou' west as well."

"Cute story," L'il Z said, interrupting Scales' narrative, "but what the fuck does that have to do with you getting it from Fleming?"

Scales and the assembled gang lords—with the exception of Malini—sighed in unison. Li'l Z was known for many things; tact was not one of them. Unfortunately.

"The Sicilian decided that bullying the Molinari family into line was the fastest way to get what he wanted, yes?" Anastasia asked. Scales nodded, feeling immensely grateful to the woman.

"Yeah. Only," he continued, "it didn' work ou' so well for the Sicilian. The Molinari family gets in a right mood and forms an alliance to get this berk out of town. Every gang in Palm gets un'er one banner and destroys th' lad's business. An' after 'e was gone, they made a few provisions in case o' this e'er happenin' again."

"And you want to create a new alliance to run Fleming out like this Sicilian," Malini said, speaking up for the first time since he'd entered the warehouse. Scales smirked at the man from his place behind Li'l Z.

"Gi' th' man a biscuit," Scales replied, clapping sarcastically.

- - o - -

Several hours later, Scales sat alone at his table. The gangs had agreed to mobilize for total warfare, in a unanimous vote. In the past fifteen years, the most they'd dealt with were petty squabbles over a shipment or territorial markers between gangs.

Fleming, however, was another breed of predator entirely. The gangs weren't happy, and they were going to fight fire with fire. Scales was fairly certain that ARK wouldn't know what had hit them.

The deformed smuggler sighed, and began dialing a familiar number into his cell phone. Dana was going to be at risk during this, her and her boy. As he listened to the phone ringing on the other end, he began planning the move that Dana and Trip were going to have to make.

"Dana…?" he asked, when the phone finally picked up. "We need to talk…"

How the hell was he going to explain this to her…?

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Like it? Hate it? Think this chapter was a bit too odd? Drop a line and let me know!


	11. Little by Little

It's finally here! After a disatroust loss of the original documents, I now present Unexpected Consequences, chapter eleven!

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter Eleven: Little by little…the Egg shall walk

Dana paced around her apartment, feeling more on edge than usual. Three days ago, she and Trip had nearly been killed by gunmen who'd been shooting at ARK cops. Trip had nearly died…Hell, _she'd_ nearly died! If not for Taylor and Michael—his twin brother—she and Trip would likely be residing in the morgue.

Today, she'd nearly been killed on her front stoop. The gang war was getting out of control, and even the bodyguards weren't helping. Palm City was in a state of open war…and Fleming didn't seem to be doing anything about it.

Taylor had advised her to stay at home that day, a decision that had been backed up by Scales, and then a phone call from Travis. Taylor had checked the apartment for bugs and then disappeared with his brother, presumably to do whatever it was that bodyguards did when they weren't working.

How two men that large and that _solid_ had vanished so thoroughly and quietly was still a mystery.

Dana growled in frustration as the clock began chiming. It was five now, and she still hadn't figured out what to make for dinner. If the public defender's office had still been open (one of the gangs had decided to set off a bomb the evening before), she'd have picked up carry-out or made macaronis.

After the shooting and everything else, though, she didn't really know what to make. Her stomach growled, letting her know that it hadn't forgotten about food, though.

A knock on the door had Dana jumping in alarm. Now who the hell would… Dana leaned against the door, arms crossed as a scowl appeared on her face. If it was Scales, she was going to keep him locked out and make spaghetti. If it was Travis coming to check up on her and Trip, she'd let him in and order a pizza.

She looked through the peephole a few seconds later and sighed. Spaghetti it was, then. The deformed smuggler was standing in the hall outside her apartment, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet. His hands were behind his back, and Dana guessed he was holding something there. She half-wondered what it was as she opened the door as far as the chain would allow.

Scales looked up as he heard the door open, a smile on his face. "'Ello luv," he said cordially, by way of a greeting. Dana nodded and smiled, suddenly wary. The last time he'd shown up on her doorstep this cheerful, he'd announced that he'd set Chess on her.

So, _what_ had he done _this_ time? Convinced a third world nation she was responsible for piracy?

"What have you done _now_?" Dana asked after a few minutes. Scales looked at her, one eyebrow raised. After a few seconds confusion, his face cleared up and he grinned.

"Not nothin', luv," Scales replied, still grinning. "Beat one of my employees for talkin' to the cozzers, locked another in the trunk, but no' anythin' illegal."

Dana blinked, unsure of how to respond to that statement. She didn't know _what_ universe Scales thought he lived in, but those acts _were_ illegal. Obviously, he _was_ as demented as the news painted him…

"Uh-huh," she replied, instead of saying what was actually on her mind. "So, why are you here? If you're checking up on me," she added with a rather sardonic grin, "you can see that I'm perfectly fine."

Scales grinned again, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I dinnit know if you'd ate already, so…" He shuffled awkwardly, before producing what he'd been holding behind his back. Judging by the smell emanating from it, the canvas bag had Italian food in it, and it smelled _wonderful_.

Dana grinned ruefully as her stomach growled again. She shut the door and unbolted the chain, before opening the door so the deformed smuggler could enter her apartment. After Scales had stepped in, Dana bolted the door shut before crossing the living room to the window.

She didn't know if the reporters had given up after a month, but she wasn't taking any chances with their video equipment. She didn't want anyone to see her current company. Not a known criminal, during a gang war at any rate. Trip didn't need another parent destroyed.

Speaking of Trip… Dana looked into the kitchen and saw her son sitting at the kitchen table. A text book was open in front of him, but it looked like he was using it as a pillow. She smiled and shook her head, before returning her attention to Scales. The man had set the bag on the coffee table, and seemed to have made himself at home on her sofa.

She sighed. A smuggler who brought her dinner and wanted to know if she was alright. What else was going to happen today? A city-wide fire?

Dana's worries were unfounded though. The entire affair went smoothly; Trip managed to stay awake long enough to eat, and Scales managed to avoid destroying her furniture. Despite the stories she'd heard about him, Dana was having some trouble equating that with the man who was so casually trading jokes with her son over plates of lasagna.

Despite the surrealism of the scene, it was nice. And if she closed her eyes, Dana thought as she sipped some water, she could imagine that it was Vince sitting across the table from her and eating dinner, instead of a criminal.

Scales leaned against the wall outside Dana' apartment, feeling more tired than he should have after relaxing for an hour. He was getting in _far _too deep with this woman… And if it weren't for the fact that he was still holding out for reciprocation, he wouldn't have done more than give Dana her husband's innocence.

"Stop moping, you stupid tit," he muttered under his breath, straightening up. There was work to be done, and he couldn't be mooning over a woman who was so dedicated to another man. And added to his current problems, Fleming wanted _another_ meeting.

Bloody effin' wonderful…

Half an hour later, Scales was in the lot behind his warehouse. Fleming wanted another meeting, no doubt worried by the gang violence that had erupted violently over the last two weeks. The smuggler smirked at that thought; two weeks had caused more chaos than the man who controlled the police could handle… Who'd have thought it?

The smuggler stood up and began pacing again, feeling anxious for no reason he could discern. He practically had Fleming on the ropes where the gangs were concerned. And as far as Fleming was concerned, his loyal dog was controlling the gangs.

Scales paused as he saw the headlights approaching. Show time, he thought.

The smuggler leaned against the hood of his car in an attempt to look casual as he waited for Fleming and his lackeys to arrive. That rude arse, Mick Reese, Fleming himself and… The smuggler smirked as he saw the last member of the unholy trio. The chief of police had deigned to come as well. Despite that, Marty Voyt didn't look very comfortable with the situation. In fact, Scales thought, the man looked like he'd been ill recently.

"Fleming," Scales said genially, a grin on his face. The businessman smiled back, although his expression was forced-looking.

"Mr. Raoul," Fleming replied stiffly. He shifted his stance, weight resting on his left foot now, almost as if he were preparing to run. "This afternoon, three men decided to shoot at ARK police officers outside city hall—in the middle of the business district. I thought we'd agreed that you were to keep the gang lords in line."

Scales shrugged, looking bored. "Dinnit 'ear you say nuffin' about th' gang ladies or the rank and file," he replied. He could tell that Fleming didn't know what he'd meant in reference to 'gang ladies', and felt no need to enlighten the man at this point.

"I don't give a damn about the gangs!" Fleming snapped irritably. "What I care about is the fact that my police officers are still getting shot in the business district!" He paused and took a deep breath, as though he were trying to calm himself.

"I don't care about what activities the gangs decide to participate in outside of the business district," Fleming continued, having collected himself, "But they continue to be a nuisance where I don't want them."

Scales resisted the urge to smirk. He instead replied "Well, wot the 'ell 'appened t' Czyjak, then? 'E coulda kept those geezers in line for ya." Fleming paled considerably, and Scales heaved a mental sigh. Fleming had gotten rid of Czyjak then. Bloody brilliant, that.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Scales," Fleming replied coldly. "I expect you to keep the gangs in line," he continued in a soft snarl. "Keep them in line, or I'll make you vanish next."

It was all Scales could do to keep smiling as he leaned back against the hood of his car. It wasn't that he'd been threatened by Fleming (that had at least proved the man had a good pair on him), but that the delivery had been…_weak_. He'd honestly been expecting better from a man who was a) reportedly one of the smartest men on earth, and b) was a psychotic criminal mastermind in his spare time.

Scales sighed, rubbing his hands together as he straightened up. "Alrigh'," he said suddenly, startling Fleming. "I'll get those geezers in line for ya."

"Ex—" Fleming began, only to be interrupted by Scales.

"In return," Scales continued, "I want some quality time wiv tha' bird, Carter, from the news station. Go' a few issues with th' girl." Let Fleming decipher _that_, Scales thought with a vicious smirk.

After a few minutes, Fleming sighed and rubbed his temples. "Alright," he said wearily. "Curtail the gang war, Scales. My bid for the contract is coming up," he added. Scales rolled his eyes at the reminded, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by Fleming, who scowled.

Before the billionaire left, he turned back to the deformed smuggler. "Oh, and Scales?" he drawled, drawing the smuggler's attention. "I don't really give a dam who you're having sex with, but I expect my associates to be…_discrete_, about such things."

Scales froze in ill-disguised shock. It wasn't until well after Fleming's limo had disappeared that he was able to shake himself out of his daze. Kazzie passed him the cell phone before he had a chance to ask for it, earning the man a few points in Scales' mental tally.

The smuggler dialed a number from memory and waited for the man on the other end to pick up.

"'Ello, Jake? I'm callin' in a favor…"

- o – o -

Author's note: So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think Scales is being an idiot again? Drop a line and let me know!


	12. Countermove

Holy crap, it's an update! Vince and Scales come to some conclusions, and Fleming plays with fire.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter twelve: Countermove

Vince sat at the table in his lair, nursing a mug of coffee and a headache. There was _no_ way this was happening, and _yet_…it _was_. Some way, somehow, Scales had managed to drag ARK's reputation through the mud. Without any effort on his part.

The vigilante grumbled something undoubtedly obscene into his coffee as the footage of Mick Reese extorting money from Scales and his gang rolled by on the local news channel for the eighth time that morning.

Vince didn't know how the deformed man had done it, but he'd managed to catch ARK red-handed doing something illegal. An annoying little voice in the back of his mind wished that he'd thought of it first. Vince ignored the voice and drank more of his sludge-like coffee.

Orwell had come in two hours ago, looking rather under the weather. She'd claimed it was just headaches, but Vince was fairly sure she was lying. Headaches didn't tend to come in waves like clockwork. The vigilante hoped it wasn't the aftereffects of whatever drugs the Lich had used on her, and knew it was.

Vince sighed into his mug of coffee and stood up to get some fresh caffeine. An hour ago, a press conference with Fleming had rolled around. Marty was being blamed for the corruption in ARK.

He was so close to getting home now, and yet…it seemed further away than ever. Even if he got home—if Marty somehow managed to out Fleming as Chess during the trial slated for next week—was there any guarantee that Dana would take him back?

(Hell, she'd probably go straight to Scales if he popped back up from the dead!)

He leaned against the wall, nursing a fresh mug of hot coffee. No matter what he wanted, getting home wasn't looking like an immediate prospect. The vigilante looked up in surprise as someone slammed into his lair.

Vince relaxed when he saw it was just Raia, instead of say, ARK troops. His unease went right back to its normal level when he saw how nervous she was. Before the vigilante could ask what had the animal trainer up in arms, she began speaking.

"Your wife is Marty Voyt's public defender."

It was a wonder that Vince didn't collapse at that statement.

- o – o -

Scales loped into the tailor shop, feeling rather at ease with himself. Fleming had asked for another meeting, no doubt wondering about the state of the gangs. As to why he'd asked to meet in a shop controlled by the Chinese Triad, the smuggler had _no_ idea.

The smuggler was also certain that Fleming felt he was holding the gang lords in line. (As far as Scales was concerned, Fleming could go bugger himself.)

The billionaire was standing on a stool in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, being fitted for a suit. As soon as Scales caught sight of the tailor attending to Fleming, he had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. It would not do to give away the game…

Tian Zhao—better known as the "Little Tiger", or "that psycho with a piano wire" among others—was apparently a tailor in his spare time. He was also one of the local Triad's favorite hit-men. Scales had to wonder if the billionaire knew he was standing so close to a murderer with what could arguably be termed a lethal weapon.

(The billionaire probably would have run screaming, Scales supposed.)

As the situation stood, it was taking every ounce of restraint the deformed smuggler possessed to keep from laughing.

Fleming saw him approaching in the mirrors and looked over, a tight smile on his face. When he spoke, his tone was polite but cold. "Dominic," he said. Scales nodded back, looking for any sort of distraction.

"Afternoon, Peter," Scales replied, eyes fixed on a spot over the billionaire's left ear. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He nodded at Zhao, and continued. "Woulda thought your man woulda come t' you."

Fleming smirked. "Zhao tailors presidents and kings, but he never leaves his shop," he replied, sounding smug. Scales didn't reply. He had more than enough problems on his plate without bringing the "Little Tiger" down on his head.

"Wot's all this about, then? I go' more important things t' attend t'," he added, in what he hoped was an appropriately annoyed tone. He could have sworn he heard Fleming mutter "Like ruin my life, apparently," but chalked it up to his imagination. A man like Fleming didn't have a sense of humor. Sarcasm, occasionally; humor, never.

Fleming heaved a sigh, drawing an irritated look from Zhao. "There's a certain public defender who's getting on my nerves," he started, looking over his shoulder at Scales. "Faraday is on a bit of a crusade right now."

Scales had to struggle to keep from scowling. He swallowed his disgust and replied to the billionaire's implied question. "You want me t' send some o' the lads around, give 'er a little message?" There was no way he was going to hurt Dana—if he sent _any_ of his lads around, they'd be taking Dana to the Palm City International Airport so he could send her to Fiji. (Or somewhere else that was tropical and far away from Palm City, but…)

"I don't want a martyr of her, Dominic," Fleming snapped, sounding irritable. "I just want her out of the way. I'm sure you can do that."

Scales scowled at Fleming, both for the implied insult to his intelligence and the implied threat to _his_ Dana. Damn that smug bastard to all the hells there were. He gave a mental growl of frustration and took a deep breath to calm himself. No need to let Fleming know _just_ how involved he was with the bird…

"Alrigh'," Scales finally replied, smirking at the billionaire. "I'll send some o' the boys aroun'." He went over a mental list of the reasons why he needed Fleming alive as the billionaire stepped down from the stool. To the smuggler, the billionaire looked intolerably smug.

Fleming said something in Chinese to Zhao, and headed for the coat rack. He smirked over at Scales. "I'm sure you've been planning to hide her away somewhere for awhile now. Just accelerate those plans."

Scales bit the inside of his cheek to keep from replying as Zhao ushered him up onto the stool. He made a few obligatory protests, and then stood still as the tailor began measuring his shoulders. "Of course," the smuggler said, "you realize my services are worth more'n th' price o' a Shang Tung suit."

Fleming sighed, and made a go-on gesture.

"You'll be payin' me th' deuce from now on, and you'll keep your nose out o' Dana Faraday's business." The billionaire sighed and nodded, in apparent concession. He said something more to Zhao, and left.

After he was sure that the billionaire was gone, Scales turned to Zhao. "Are you really tha' short o' customers, Zhao?" he asked incredulously.

The little man shrugged. "You wouldn't believe what he says when he thinks you can't understand him," Zhao replied with a smirk. Scales snickered as the Chinese man measured him for a suit. Trust the sneaky little bastard to turn a situation to his advantage.

- o -

At this point, Vince didn't know if he should sulk or find Orwell to rant. While ranting to Orwell would be fun—and a good stress reliever—he was fairly sure she had enough on her plate without adding his issues to it. Sulking was almost as useful at this point, but less productive.

For some reason, unknown to anyone but Max (and maybe Ruvi, who seemed to know everything), the old magician had made a deal with Scales yesterday. As of yet, he was still refusing to say what the deal was for.

If the vigilante hadn't already done so, he would have pinched himself. There was no way this could be real, and yet… Vince sighed and slumped down in his chair. The whole world had turned upside down, and become unrecognizable in under two months.

(Three, if he wanted to count December. Which he didn't, as he was still trying to scrub that month from his memory. So far, he'd had no luck.)

Vince sighed and stood up, pacing again. Something was going to happen soon, and it wasn't going to be good. Before the vigilante could get another cup of coffee—or make another pot, at this point—Orwell stormed into his lair, holding her car keys in one hand and a BlackBerry in the other.

"Someone posted bail for Marty. He's getting out in half an hour," Orwell said, with no preamble or even a greeting.

Vince sighed and put his mug down. Time to go to work.

- o – o -

So, it's a new chapter. What do you think? Good? Bad? Things moving too fast or are confusing? Drop a line and let me know!


	13. Endgame

This is the last chapter of a long story, that I have watched develop over the course of several weeks. I'm very proud of the story, and even prouder of the people who took the time out of their day to read it, leave a review, or even do a drive-by and favorite my story.

Special thanks go out to my minions-Orwell and WtchCool, who've been with me every step of the way on this story and put up with my bellyaching every time something didn't turn out correctly. They've been the greatest influence in this story, and they've put up with me at two in the morning when I'm wired on caffeine. Thanks also go to the anonymous reviewer who keeps popping up here and there, as well as everyone who favorited this story, or put it on alert. Thank you.

Without further adieu, I present chapter thirteen of Unexpected Consequences.

- o – o -

Chapter thirteen: Endgame

Dana was in shock.

Less than a day ago, she'd begun defending Marty against charges of corruption. This morning, Marty had been released on bail. That alone made Dana suspicious—Judge Preston had refused to set bail, and Dana had never been informed of one before she'd run to Ark Towers to find Marty and find out what was going on.

She growled something under her breath and began pacing around the small room. Right now, she'd give anything to go back to her apartment—even though her parents were there. Anything that was normal, even her parents dirty looks (they'd found out about Scales when Taylor showed up unexpectedly), would have given her something concrete to hold onto.

Right now, it just felt like she was falling down the rabbit hole, or perhaps she was stuck in someone else's dream…

The public defender sighed as she realized how little sense she was making, even to herself. Everything was too scrambled right now. Yesterday evening, two thugs had tried to kill her. If not for Taylor and the Cape, she would have died. Today, she'd tried to rescue Marty from a flock of reporters outside Ark.

That situation had turned on its head when two of the reporters had turned out to be assassins. The Cape had stepped in to save her, Marty, and Susan. He'd whisked the three of them away somewhere, and now…

Dana sighed and sat down on one of the many over-stuffed sofas in the shop. Her son was probably still at home with her parents, wondering where she was. She'd left instructions for him not to open the door for anyone but Taylor or Travis, but… All things considered, would either of them show up?

She looked over into the next room, where Susan was pulling the thick red quilt back over CJ. Dana smiled sadly. She missed doing that—Trip was "too big" for his mother to tuck him in now.

The Cape walked by, talking quietly to the magician—Max something-or-other. The vigilante looked uncomfortable, and the magician looked concerned. Whatever they were talking about, it probably had to do with her. (She'd come to that conclusion after seeing them glance in her direction several times.)

Dana sighed again. When she got out of this situation, she was going to find Scales and skin him for boot leather. She could practically sense his hand in this mess—either with the Cape whisking her and the Voyts away, or Marty getting bail. She smirked at the thought and closed her eyes.

Dana was half asleep when the cushion dipped next to her. She groaned under her breath and opened one eye to see who it was. It was Max the magician, the superhero's mysterious—and somewhat creepy—mentor and/or confidant. Whatever the man wanted, it probably had to do with her connection to Scales.

(Didn't all the gang lords in this city know each other, or something?)

She sighed and sat up after the magician cleared his throat.

"Good evening, Mrs. Faraday," Max said quietly. Dana nodded groggily and yawned to show that she was listening. The magician smiled slightly, before speaking. "The Cape and I were discussing something, in relation to you and your son," he started

Dana resisted the urge to roll her eyes or fall asleep. She could tell this wasn't going to end well. "Alright," she yawned, wishing for some of the tar masquerading as coffee that her criminal favored. Whatever Scales put in that, it sure had a lot of caffeine…

"We have been discussing recent events," the magician continued quietly, "and we think it would be best for you and your son to leave Palm City with the Voyts."

_That_ woke Dana up. She sat up straight, staring at the magician. What the hell did he mean by that?

"What?" she asked, trying to jumpstart her higher brain functions by will alone. "Why?"

Max sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Everyone in my world knows about Scales. We also know that he's been meeting with Fleming. As to what happens in those meetings, well…" He trailed off, a look of paternal concern on his face.

Dana sat back and scowled, crossing her arms. She already knew about the meetings the smuggler had with Fleming. Hell, she'd advised Dom—no, she reminded herself, Scales—Scales to wear a wire to them, to record everything. (She did _not_ need to be on a first name basis with a criminal, not now. Not when she could practically see the end of Ark and her husband's "return" to the land of the innocent and living.)

"So what about it?" Dana asked, hoping her voice wasn't quavering as much as she thought it was. Nervousness around criminals was like blood in the water to a shark.

"I have it on good authority," Max replied quietly, "that he's planning on abducting you. I don't know why, or for what reason, but the Cape and I are in agreement that the smuggler would do you serious harm if he did." He sighed, looking weary. "I owe the Cape a favor, and he wants to call it in—to see you safe."

Dana raised an eyebrow. The last time she'd heard from Scales—last night, actually—he'd mentioned wanting her to move to Fiji for some reason. He'd nearly refused to give her an explanation, until she'd threatened to brain him with the coffeepot.

(For some reason, he'd only laughed at her threat. From what she'd heard, he'd killed people for less. Dana had the impression that the deformed smuggler was toying with her, or… Dare she think it, was falling for her. That last explanation would explain quite a bit, actually. She didn't want to contemplate that, if that was the case.)

"Alright," Dana said, shaking herself away from the thought of love-struck smugglers. "Say I believe that. What's to stop me from asking Fleming for protection—dubious as it is, or moving to Humboldt with my parents?"

Max smiled, looking amused. "I had a feeling you'd respond like that." He was about to continue when the little creep—Dana thought his name was Rollo—walked up and whispered something to Max.

The magician stood up, a mixture of annoyance and fear on his face. Dana had to wonder what was wrong before he turned to her. "You're leaving with the Voyts, Mrs. Faraday. V—The Cape will get your son and send him along after you."

Dana would have protested if the magician had stayed any longer than a few seconds after that pronouncement. As it was, she was left on the couch, wondering what the Cape's real name was. Max had nearly said it—and for some reason, she thought she'd heard "Vince" coming, before he'd changed to "the Cape".

Dana scowled at the implications. If the Cape was her husband, she was going to use his costume to strangle him.

- o -

Scales sat on the boot of his car, staring at the cell phone in his hands. When Merlin had contacted him at six that morning, he'd thought the magician's mad plan was some sort of odd prank. (Or something brought on by sleep deprivation, but either way…) Now, apparently, it had turned into the real deal. Dana was fleeing town, and the carnival would send Trip along to his mum as soon as they could grab him.

The smuggler sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. If not for the phone call, he'd have grabbed Dana and her whelp earlier that morning and packed them off to the nearest airfield. He'd been planning to for weeks, after all. Fiji would have been a good destination for the two Faradays. Dana would probably have enjoyed that—women liked the tropics, didn't they?

He slid off the boot and stretched before loping around to the passenger side door. According to the latest call from his erstwhile ally, they needed to get Voyt out of town now. The man's bird and his nippers were with him. So was Dana…

Scales muttered a curse under his breath and grabbed one of his back-up guns out of the glove box. He was three minutes away from where the industrial district met the train yards. According to the plan, Voyt had to appear dead—and Fleming needed to be appeased for a few weeks. That would be all the time Jacobi would need, hopefully…

He smirked as he began jogging towards the train yards. If Fleming thought the gang lords had been trouble now, then he had a surprise in store… Erin Jacobi was _always_ a surprise. He _was_ a legend with explosives on both sides of the Tropic of Capricorn, of course.

The smuggler came to a stop at the edge of the yards. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, and began checking his gun. There was absolutely _no_ reason for it to jam, even if he was just play-acting.

And, Dana was going to be in danger, no matter what happened. Even if Fleming had sworn he was going to leave everything to Scales, the smuggler didn't believe him. When in doubt, he would grab Dana and run like hell.

He was about to sit down to wait when he saw Voyt's bird ushering two small children towards the edge of the industrial maze bordering the train yards. Time to get to work…

- o -

Dana was on edge. Four hours ago, she'd agreed to abandon her entire life on the word of a strange magician. (Who was, apparently, connected with organized crime. That didn't bother her half as much as it _should_ have.) Now she was following a dwarf named Rollo through the back ways of the industrial district in an attempt to reach the train yard before Ark troops caught up with them. (There was probably a faster rout through the industrial district, but considering the number of sirens they'd heard so far, the back ways were _definitely _safer. Especially for Susan and her children.)

Dana glanced over at Susan, who looked like she was splitting all of her energy between running and not crying. The public defender couldn't really blame the other woman. In the span of two days, her entire life had fallen apart. Instead of starting a slow path to recovery, she and her family now had to flee for their lives. Susan hadn't had the chance to recuperate…

Dana sighed and tried to concentrate on following Rollo. Her mind turned to Trip, and she wondered what he was doing right now. She'd been gone since early yesterday morning, and he had to be going crazy with worry right now. Even with her parents and Taylor there, he'd still worry. Losing one parent was bad, losing both would be devastating for him.

She breathed a little sigh of relief as she saw the train Max had spoken of. While she _was_ relieved that she could finally stop running, she wasn't so sure about the train. It was rusty, looked like it was falling apart, and Dana was fairly sure that one good hit would take it completely apart. To say nothing about what ARK troops would do…

(Appearances could be deceiving, though. Scales came to mind, for some reason. Dana brushed _that_ comparison aside as quickly as she could. Too many things could go wrong right now, and…)

Speak of the devil, Dana thought. Almost as if she'd summoned him just by thought alone, there was the deformed smuggler. He seemed to be guarding the way between the edge of the industrial yard and the train yard. What was he doing here, and…

Dana froze as ARK troops arrived. They were an unwelcome surprise, on top of everything else that had happened that day. _How_ had they known when the train was arriving?

Dana saw Susan ushering her children back towards the industrial district with all due haste. Before she could follow them, she saw Marty and the Cape hiding behind some pipes just past Scales. Oh god. This entire situation had gone south, and why weren't they running back into the industrial maze with Susan?

All the wind was knocked out of her lungs as Scales tackled her to the ground. He smiled down at her, a weak chuckle escaping his lips.

"Funny 'ow we keep meetin' like this, darlin'," he muttered.

Dana could only watch as he fell to his side, unconscious.

- o -

Scales leapt into action as he saw the ARK gunmen aiming for Dana, instead of Voyt or the blackbird. Why the bleedin' 'ell were they shooting at Dana? The ARK cozzers had gone mad! He was their target, damnit! Dana was innocent.

There was no time to warn her. There was no time to warn her, and…

Scales grabbed Dana around the waist in a rugby tackle and held her down as the gunmen began firing.

"Funny 'ow we keep meetin' like this, darlin'," he murmured into her ear. He collapsed onto his side, letting go of Dana.

There was no time.

- o – o -

Author's note: So we come to an end. This is the last full chapter I will post in this story, and I'm rather sad to publish it. I thought about keeping it safe on my thumb drive forever, but knew I couldn't. There will be an epilogue at some point, so don't lose hope on this just yet. There will be one last piece to tie this up. Some day...

(Hey all-quick note. I've got a poll up on my main page, about what I should write next. Feel free to vote for two choices. You get to determine what I write next. Enjoy.)


	14. Epilogue: Full Circle

Well, here it is... The epilogue. If I waited any longer, this would never get posted, so...

Without further adieu, I present the epilogue of Unexpected Consequneces.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Epilogue: Full Circle

The aftermath of the Train Yard Shooting had long-lasting effects on Palm City.

Within the first three days, as news of the events leaked out, the public's opinion of ARK dropped forty-six percent. ARK stock fell thirty-seven percent. By the end of the week, as the whole picture of the events shaped into something concrete, and as more details of the shooting came out, stock prices fell again. In under a week, ARK Corporation had experienced the biggest drop in its stock since 1991. It was a disastrous week for ARK Corporation; rumor had it that Peter Fleming was working his public relations team on overtime in an attempt to keep ARK's corporate head above water.

Orwell is Watching covered the downfall of ARK with a sort of sadistic glee in the first week, and it only got more vicious as the month dragged on. ARK doubled its efforts to find the elusive blogger, only to fail every time. Orwell, it seemed, knew more about ARK's computer systems than ARK did.

By the end of the month, Orwell had crushed nearly any hope ARK had of surviving in Palm City.

ARK's real problems began when the Department of Defense sent in its own investigators. The reporters who'd gotten advanced notice of their arrival shadowed the investigators almost as aggressively as they'd followed Dana Faraday four months before. Chess and his true identity was no longer their main interest. No, that honor had fallen to Scales, and his connections to the Department of Defense.

(The arrival of several alleged Mossad agents via the Israeli consulate failed to elicit the same interest or excitement. Everyone in Palm City knew the deformed smuggler had connections with the Israeli government.)

Within two weeks of the DOD's arrival in Palm City, everyone knew the details of Scales' life before he'd entered the city. The smuggler, confined to a hospital bed as he recovered from six gunshot wounds, reportedly threw the television through the window. According to the rumor, the news segment on his childhood and rise to power (cleverly entitled "Slave to Smuggler"), had come on for the fifth time in a row.

Despite the press's attempts to the contrary, Scales was unavailable for comment.

Three weeks after the segment aired for the first time, Dana Faraday was seen entering the private hospital Scales was convalescing in. No concrete details emerged, but it was generally assumed that she'd gone to visit the man who'd saved her life. The press lapped it up, and touted it as the burgeoning romance of the century.

Taylor and Michael were allegedly arrested for kidnapping and assaulting several reporters. They denied any connection with the crime. (Shortly after the charges were tossed out, Taylor proposed to Kia Moreno, his public defender. They were married the following year.)

By the end of the first month, the national government placed the city under martial law in an attempt to keep the public from forming a lynch mob. The investigation—the very _public_ investigation—into ARK Corporation had dug up enough skeletons to fill a modestly-sized city graveyard. It also generated enough paperwork to kill a good portion of the rainforest every day for a year.

When Marty finally arrived at trial two months after the shooting, Orwell gleefully reported on every aspect of the trial. Live coverage was provided for anyone who was interested. Despite the coverage, the blog was strangely silent on one issue raised during cross-examination. Who _was_ Chess underneath the mask?

After several weeks of agonizing questioning, and equally agonizing reluctance from the former head of security, it eventually came out that Chess was, in fact, Peter Fleming. Orwell released his (or her, the press wasn't really sure) own evidence. Following that, the blog was silent for a week on anything related to ARK.

Despite the numerous attempts on his life, Marty Voyt survived to the end of the trial. This was primarily due to a mysterious vigilante in a cape and several alleged members of the Hell's Angels. The bikers had yet to be identified by anyone. The comic book company who owned the rights to The Cape refused to give up their search for "the walking copyright infringement" for several more months.

By the end of the trial, all of Peter Fleming's dirty laundry had been aired, including his dealings with terrorist organizations. The last anyone saw of the billionaire was a massively publicized—and somewhat tearful—reunion between the man and his estranged daughter. Before the military police escorted him away from the courthouse, his daughter gave him one last hug goodbye. The last rumor anyone heard concerning Peter Fleming was that he had vanished into the lower depths of Guantanamo Bay.

His daughter, Jamie Fleming, took the helm of ARK Corporation.

As Fleming's daughter cleaned house at ARK, Orwell's blog began to fall silent. By the time she had cemented her position, Orwell's blog had faded into the background as a concrete presence in Palm City—although it did, from time to time, put up a list of corrupt city officials. For old time's sake, the followers said. Jamie Fleming, it seemed, was the vision of brighter days ahead that ARK Corporation had always promised. (It would be several years, however, before Jamie Fleming would give any personal interviews to the press.)

As time went by, her secretary learned to ignore the fact that a dwarf named Rollo came up to the penthouse more and more often, or left later and later. Eventually, the man gave up commenting on it and began rearranging his employer's schedule according to her strange friend's visits.

(Rollo had come to terms with the fact that Orwell, his Julia, was in fact Peter Fleming's daughter. Two years after her father was arrested and convicted, an engagement announcement appeared in the _Palm City Herald_. A local carnival and the reunited Faraday family attended the May wedding.)

Vince Faraday eventually resurfaced in Trolley Park, alive and well. He gave his own deposition at Peter Fleming's trial, exposing what he had learned about ARK's dealings during the year he'd been missing. After the trial, when his friend and confidant's true identity was exposed, he took the news rather poorly. After several weeks of silence, he eventually forgave Orwell for keeping that secret from him. (Dana had thrown a bag of frozen peas at him, and then pointed out his personal failings.)

Vincent Gregory Faraday II eventually became the close advisor and confidant of Jamie Fleming, second only to her husband, Rollo. (Even after twelve years of marriage, the dwarf would refuse to answer to anything but Rollo.) He was often seen at her side during official press conferences, and she was often seen at small, close-knit family outings with his family.

Months after Jamie had taken the helm at ARK, Faraday joined the company—officially, this time—and became her chief of security. Very few people questioned the friendship between the two, nor the almost paternal bond Faraday had with his young employer.

Dana Faraday refused to let her husband live in the apartment during the first few months of his return to life. Trip was unhappy with his mother's decision, but understood that she was hurting at his dad's implication that he didn't trust her enough to tell her he was still alive. During the trial separation—Dana told Vince, point-blank, that she was seriously considering divorcing him in favor of Scales—they'd attended couple's counseling.

Trip was ecstatic when his parents informed him that they'd decided to renew their vows. He was the photographer at their ceremony, under the patient direction of Jamie Fleming (although he knew her better as Orwell, or Aunt Jamie) and Rollo. The Carnival, Taylor and Kia, and Scales were also in attendance. Despite their mutual hatred of each other, the smuggler and the former vigilante managed to maintain an air of civility for Dana's sake.

After the ceremony, Scales returned to the docks. Over the next few years, he cleaned house in the criminal sector. One astute reporter would later note that it was eerily similar to Jamie Fleming's clean-up of ARK Corporation. Over the course of the clean-up, several drug lords disappeared. Most prominent of those among the missing was Li'l Z. His replacement was received with much more enthusiasm.

Eventually, the crime lords in Palm City gained a position of wary respect. They still committed crimes that set the police on edge for weeks, but it seemed to have taken a less violent tone over the years. They still maintained an ongoing rivalry with the Cape, but it was now more of a friendly rivalry. (Dealing with the elder Fleming had taught the gang lords that cooperating with a local vigilante was easier than trying to route an outsider with only the criminal side of life.)

Three years after the shooting, Dana gave birth to the second Faraday child. She was named Dominica, despite Vince's protests. When the deformed smuggler learned that his goddaughter had been named after him, he disappeared for several hours. No one knew what happened, but it was generally assumed that he had cried.

As his god-daughter grew up, Scales never missed an opportunity to dote on her. Dominica Faraday had her godfather wrapped around each and every finger, quite thoroughly. Despite his initial exasperation at the idea, Vince eventually grew used to the smuggler's presence in his daughter's life.

(The fact that he'd learned how to covertly take blackmail-quality pictures had _nothing_ to do with it. By the time Scales finally retired from full-time smuggling, Vince had acquired three scrapbooks full of Dominic interacting with Dominica. It was a safe bet that the deformed smuggler didn't know about the existence of the photos; Vince was still alive, after all.)

Twelve years later, Scales finally retired from any sort of criminal activity. He retired to a private island in the South Pacific, although he did return to Palm City to watch his goddaughter play soccer—and eventually, place in the Women's team for the World Cup Championship when she was eighteen.

Noodle eventually succeeded Scales as the head of the longshoremen's union. (To the surprise of his coworkers, he'd grown some brains.) He turned the docks into the most profitable sector of Palm City, and was granted the rights to the docks when the new mayor took control and started eminent domain proceedings. Violent crime on the docks went down thirty-seven percent in the first year. Organized crime and smuggling went up seventy-three.

In the end, everything turned out well. Palm City continued on as it always had. Crime continued to be a daily part of life, but the people dealt with it. The city might have been a cesspool of humanity, and it might have been grimier than most others, but it was still theirs. The Cape was going to be there, to make sure the city survived another day. Criminals or no criminals.

- o – o -

Well...this is the last chapter that I'll post here. I'm kind of sad, I guess.

What did you think of the story, overall? Did you like it, or not? What's your general reaction to this epilogue? Should I have done something differently? Drop a line and let me know.


End file.
